She did smile, but it was a pathetic effort. He patted her hand. "Cheer up, Sis: we'll get out all right."
He sat still for a few minutes, trying to think what other implements he could use against the door. He felt Margaret's hand gripping his arm, and glanced down at her. Her eyes were fixed on the door, and she was white as death. He looked quickly in the same direction, and saw what had attracted her attention. Inch by inch the shutter was sliding back.
"Move!" Peter said under his breath, but it seemed as though she either did not hear him, or dared not stir. He slipped in front of her, shielding her; there was no time to force her over to the wall.
The panel slid still farther; they saw a cowled face behind the grille, and through the slits in the cowl eyes glittered as the light caught them.
Peter stood perfectly still, and his mouth felt unpleasantly dry all at once.
The sinister face disappeared; there was a sound of bolts being drawn, and the door was opened. On the threshold stood the Monk, an automatic in his right hand. He put up his other hand, and pulled the cowl back from his head.
A bitter cry broke from Margaret. "My God! You!" she gasped.
For the Monk was none other than Michael Strange.
Chapter Seventeen
For an instant they all three stared at one another. Then Strange said in a voice of blank surprise: "How the devil did you get here?" His eyes travelled to Margaret's tense face, and he took a quick step towards her. "Please don't look like that! It's all right, Miss Fortescue."