At the same moment a voice rang through the room.
"Hands up, or you're dead men!"
Springing to his feet Durham faced towards the door.
Standing in it were two figures, one the yellow-bearded man he had seen at Waroona Downs, the other a man of slighter build whose face was entirely concealed by a handkerchief hanging from under his hat and gathered in at the throat, with two holes burned for the eyes. Each man held a revolver, the masked man covering Durham, the bearded man covering Dudgeon.
"Hands up!"
There was the sharp ring in the voice which betokens the strain of a deadly determination. The eyes which glanced along the sights of the levelled weapon, aimed direct at Durham's head, were merciless and hard. Unless they were the last words he was ever to hear, Durham realised there was only one course open. He raised his hands above his head. A side glance showed him Dudgeon standing with his arms up.
"Turn your back, and put your hands behind you," he heard the bearded man say, and Dudgeon shuffled round.
A double click followed, a familiar sound to Durham—the click of snapping handcuffs.
"Now, Mr. Detective, it's your turn," he heard the man say. "Put your hands behind you."
The eyes behind the mask wandered for an instant from their aim to glance at the shackled Dudgeon.