"Never mind breaking in the door," Mathison called. "I'll open it."
He did so; and four men came rushing in—the house detective, the manager, the inquisitive clerk, and a policeman.
"The Lord Mayor of London, huh?" bellowed the house detective. He carried a revolver. "Put up your hands!" Mathison obeyed promptly. Michaels ran his hand over Mathison's pockets and gave a cry of delight as he brought forth the heavy Colt automatic. "A gat! I thought I'd find one."
"Now then," said Mathison, still able to hold his rage in check, "be so good as to explain what the devil all this means?"
"We'll explain that in the office."
"We'll explain it here and now, or you'll have to carry me. And in that event I can promise you some excitement."
"All right, me lud. Word comes from the police headquarters to hold you and hold you good. You're 'Black' Ellison, and there's a thousand iron boys waiting to be paid over on your delivery. We'll carry you, if you say so."
So that was it! Mathison saw the whole thing in a flash. Clever, clever beyond anything he had imagined. To get him out of the room in a perfectly logical way, and then search it. He saw clearly that his own mysterious actions would be held against him. Caught! He couldn't help admiring the method. The woman to keep him interested and puzzled until they were ready to fire the train.
"Is there any reason why we can't remain here? You've got to prove that I'm the man you want."
"Orders are to take you down to the private office," said the policeman.