As we leaned against the wall, I heard a slight movement outside. “Hush,” I muttered, “there’s a sound.”
The noise grew louder. It was a key turning in the inside door. Then not one, but three or four persons, came hurriedly across the floor towards the door by which we had entered. Tom seized the whole stool and poised it ready to rush out, while I gripped a rung of the broken one. The bolt shot back, the key turned, the door swung open, and there in the rectangle stood Dorothy, Hamerly, the assistant who had imprisoned us and an unknown elderly man. In a moment Dorothy was in Tom’s arms, but her hand groped for mine as she clung to him. She sobbed only for a moment, recovering herself almost as swiftly as she had broken down.
“Good work, old girl,” said Tom, patting her. “I don’t think, frankly, that I was ever so glad to see you in all my life.”
As Dorothy, still with a slightly tremulous smile, turned towards me, Tom gave his hand to Hamerly.
“How in blazes did Dorothy do this trick, anyway?” he asked.
“I saw your signal of distress from the other side of the street,” broke in Dorothy, “and I drove straight to the Museum for one of our friends there. I didn’t want to bother with police if I could help it. I met Mr. Hamerly just where you met him before, on the steps. And just think, this good man here is the book shop man. We met him as we came down to the door after trying the place.”
“So you and Hamerly charged the lion’s den alone, did you?” I interrupted.
“Why, of course,” said Dorothy.
“It’s all due to her,” said Hamerly.
“No, it’s due to the assistant’s getting frightened,” said Dorothy. “Isn’t it, Mr. Elder?”