“Look out!” was her feeble exclamation. “He is here!”
A SOUND came from above, up by the stone stairs. Harry swung his flashlight in that direction, and leveled his revolver. The gleam of the light revealed the form of a man — a man who wore a brilliant red mask across his face.
The roar of Harry’s revolver was cannonlike in the little room; but his shots were too late.
Just as his finger sought the trigger, Harry saw a crimson-clad hand against the edge of the metal door. The huge barrier swung shut; the bullets from Harry’s gun were deflected by the sheet of steel.
“He was behind the door,” gasped Arlette. “I saw him there, Harry.”
The door was not entirely shut. Harry noted a width of a few inches. He dashed for the steps; but as he approached, the muzzle of a revolver was pressed through the opening.
The red hand that clutched it pressed the trigger. Harry collapsed as the bullet struck his shoulder. He tripped from the steps, rolled over, and lay motionless upon the stone floor.
A few seconds passed; then the door was pressed shut from the other side. A loud click followed, as an automatic lock was fastened.
Arlette turned to Harry. The man groaned, as she pressed a handkerchief against his wound. His head had struck the floor, and he had been momentarily stunned. He recovered his senses, and looked about him.
“We are trapped,” said Arlette. “But perhaps we may escape. Some one may — “