‘We haven’t much time, Mallet,’ he gasped, as the sweat poured down his face.
Desperately they drove the couch against the bar. Still it held. The terrible fear that the couch would come to pieces was in both their hearts.
‘The torch!’ cried Mallet hoarsely. ‘Quick, or we’re done!’
Drawing his magazine pistol and holding it close to the door, he fired its full charge of seven shots at the vertical bar. La Touche instantly grasped his idea, and emptied his two remaining shots at the same place. The bar was thus perforated by a transverse line of nine holes.
There was a singing in the men’s ears and a weight on their chests as, with the energy of despair, they literally hurled the heavy couch against the weakened bar. With a tearing sound it gave way. They could get through.
‘You for it, Mallet! Quick!’ yelled La Touche, as he staggered drunkenly back. But there was no answer. Through the swirling clouds the detective could see his assistant lying motionless. That last tremendous effort had finished him.
La Touche’s own head was swimming. He could no longer think connectedly. Half unconsciously he pulled the other’s arms to the hole. Then, passing through, he turned to draw his confrère out. But the terrible roaring was swelling in his ears, the weight on his chest was growing insupportable, and a black darkness was coming down over him like a pall. Insensible, he collapsed, half in and half out of the doorway.
As he fell there was a lurid flicker and a little dancing flame leaped lightly from the floor.
CHAPTER XXX