Dick put his hand on the doorknob, giving it a turn and a hard push.
"Door's locked tightly now," he announced.
"And it takes human hands to lock a door," Reade observed sagely.
"Is there anyone inside who needs any help?" Prescott called loudly.
All was silent inside. Then Dick played a tattoo on the locked door with his fists. Still no sound from inside.
"All together, now," urged Dick. "Any—-one—-want—-help?" bawled six lusty young voices in unison.
"There is only one voice that answers," continued Dick, after a pause, as he turned to the others. "That's the silent voice of good sense."
"What does it say, then," challenged Dave.
"That we've done about all we can do here," Dick replied. "All we know is that a man seemed to have been hurt here. If he was, he was able to take himself away, and to conceal the signs of his hurt before going. Therefore we've no further excuse for meddling around here that I can see."
"Let's get along then," Tom urged. "And—-whew! It's after half past six!"