“Man,” he said, “you took a long chance. We might have plugged you.”
“Huh.” The chauffeur blinked as if not comprehending, and without further comment burst out with: “Did yuh hear the shots?”
“Shots. What shots?” The others crowded close.
“Why, I heard two—three shots from the direction your friends took. Thought you’d be comin’ out a-runnin’ but when you didn’t I bust in to find out why.”
They glanced at each other, eyes lighting with excitement. Then young Harincourt cried breathlessly: “Let’s go.” He started to move toward the door, but Lieutenant Bracewell dropped a hand on his arm, staying him.
“Wait a minute. Captain Murray said we should come only in case he blew his whistle. Did you—” he demanded of the chauffeur—“hear the whistle?”
“Whistle? No.”
“Then we stay.”
Young Harincourt started to protest, but Lieutenant Bracewell silenced him with a wave of the hand. No, more. Gripping the chauffeur by an arm, he drew him within the room, and quickly closed the door.
“Everybody back in that corner behind the trap,” he commanded, lowering his voice to a whisper. “And no noise. If Captain Murray is forcing an entrance to the house, it’s more than likely that the fellows he’s after may try to escape through the tunnel.”