"Hold his legs," cried Armstrong to Warrender, who had joined him. "Pratt, bring up some rope; there's plenty on the packing cases below."
The Swede heaved and writhed, but the firm hands of Armstrong and Warrender held him to the floor until Pratt had neatly bound his arms and legs. He filled the air with curses while the pinioning was a-doing. Warrender caught up some sheets from the pile of paper that had already been printed, and twisting them into a wad, stuffed it between the man's teeth. Laid helpless against the wall, the Swede concentrated all the bitterness of his rage and resentment in his eyes, which followed every movement of his captors.
Armstrong had already shot the stout bolt that defended the heavy oaken door on the inside. Having disposed of their victim, they threw a hasty glance at the small hand press, the piles of paper, printed and unprinted; in their eagerness to achieve their purpose they did not stay to make a thorough examination.
"Jack, will you close the trap-door below and remain on guard here?" said Warrender. "Take this fellow's pistol. You can spy out through a chink in the boarding, and if you see any of the others coming, sing out."
"Righto," said Armstrong.
Pratt was already through the low doorway in the north-east corner of the room. Warrender followed him, and found himself at the foot of a dark stone staircase, which wound so rapidly that Pratt was even now out of sight. The stairs were much worn in the middle, and in their haste to ascend the boys were glad to avail themselves of the rope that ran along the inner wall, supported by rusty iron stanchions.
When they had mounted a score of steps by the light of Warrender's torch, they came to an open doorway giving access to a low room lined with bookcases, except on the eastern wall, where a window, closely boarded up, looked towards the Red House. A desk stood in the centre of the floor; there was no other furniture, no occupant, only an array of small tin cases along one of the walls. Going higher, they presently halted before a closed door, the top of which was only a few feet below the massive timbers of the roof. Pratt turned the large iron ring; the door did not yield. He rapped smartly on the oak: there was no reply. Stooping, he peeped through the enormous keyhole. The interior of the room was dark. Warrender held the torch to the hole.
"The door's four or five inches thick," said Pratt. "No wonder he can't hear--if this is the room. Bang with your spanner."
Warrender smote the door vigorously, Pratt listening at the keyhole. There was no reply, but Pratt declared that he heard a slight movement, and putting his mouth to the keyhole he cried--
"Can you hear? We are friends."