"Look you to your automatics!" he shouted. "And up with the trapdoor, Ralph. The acid vats must be hidden."
But the police were upon them as he spoke. Revolvers cracked. Jack Harkness, blonde, curly haired, and of magnificent physique, let his firearm drop as he clapped his hand to a suddenly nerveless right arm.
"I'm wounded," he bellowed, "but after them! Let not that arch villain escape!"
A bluecoat sprang forward, halted, and fell flat on his face. Ralph, a heroic sacrifice in spite of his guilt, intercepted a bullet meant for Mordaunt. Then the master counterfeiter, realizing that his cause was hopeless, raised a hand as a token of surrender, and advanced slowly to receive the waiting handcuffs. As the policeman raised his hands to slip them on, he dashed suddenly past to the stairway, and slammed the door behind him. A key squeaked in its little-used lock, and the representatives of the law stared at each other for one dazed, dragging moment.
Suddenly Harkness flung his muscular form against the door again and again until it broke from its hinges. As his subordinates dashed up the stairway in futile pursuit, he dallied in the bullet-marked room that he might walk to the center of the stage and wave his unwounded arm melodramatically.
"I will rescue her," he vowed solemnly. "I will rescue my little Martha though the chase leads to the burning, sand-strewn deserts of Africa!"
There was tumultuous applause and the curtain. Louise leaned back in her seat with shining eyes. John drew a deep breath.
"Isn't it just peachy?"
Sid DuPree nodded. "Makes me think of the way the cowboys used to shoot off their revolvers on the ranch."
"Have another candy," suggested John promptly. Again was the flow of reminiscences successfully checked.