The man whom he addressed gave an expression of relief. Motkin was evidently the leader of those present. He was a short, shrewd-faced man, and the scowl which he wore remained, despite the fact that his mind seemed eased.
“Look at these,” remarked one of Motkin’s companions, pointing to the floor.
He was indicating the gas masks. A troubled air came over Motkin. He spoke in low tones to those beside him.
“Put on the masks,” he ordered. “Go down and see if all is well. Call upon the soldiers if you have need for them. If not—”
His two associates nodded. They understood the reason for Motkin’s worry. Gas indicated that the invaders had actually reached the room that they had sought.
Motkin turned on his heel and went out to the street. The searchlight of the armored car had been turned toward the house next door, spotting the windows on the upper floors.
“Who is there?” questioned Motkin, speaking to an officer in charge.
“We have trapped one man,” was the reply. “The soldiers are all through the house. They have been shouting for light.”
“Let them have it.” Motkin’s tone was determined. “Capture that man — alive, if possible. Bring him to me do you understand?”
The officer’s reply was interrupted as a volley of shots resounded from within the house. A soldier appeared at one of the upper windows. He emerged and crawled along a projection to reach the next room.