"Let me get out! Let me get out!" he said, making a bolt for the door.
And he went. There was no use in trying to stop him.
One of my friends and I now went downstairs, while the third member of our party stayed behind to hide a few odds and ends of gear, in case the house was searched.
We waited downstairs, making light of our fears, and fighting a premonition of disaster.
Presently there was a loud tapping on the door. Even if it were the police, I thought, our disguises would carry us through. Then I noticed that my friend was in shirt-sleeves. I put on my spectacles and tried to stick on my moustache again, but the gum from it had gone.
The rapping at the door became louder and louder, and presently it was opened by a flustered female.
In trooped six detectives, including the man I had recognised, who was apparently their leader.
"There are some British officers hiding here," he said fiercely to the woman; "show me where they are."
While this scene was passing in the entrance-hall, we were behind the door of the pantry.
A detective came in and caught my friend. Meanwhile two others were pommelling the unfortunate woman to make her say where we were. She kept pleading that she knew nothing about any British officers.