But it was necessary for Starr and Britt to follow her to the wider space below the corridor in order to allow her to pass them. They demurred, still, but she hurried back up the stairs. Britt knelt and gave her his shoulders to serve as a mounting block. She swung herself over the door, and by the light of the match that Starr held she was able to avoid stepping on the prostrate figure when she lowered herself to the floor.
The men outside in the passage detected the odor of chloroform.
“I have lifted him,” the girl cried. “Push back the door.”
Britt obeyed. Then he and Starr took the unconscious cashier by shoulders and heels and carried him to the private office.
Britt's office conveniences did not include a couch; the men propped Vaniman in the desk chair and Vona crouched beside him and took his head on her shoulder.
There were no visible marks of injury. He gave off the scent of chloroform. His wrists were crossed in front of him and were secured with a noose of tape. Starr picked up shears from Britt's desk and cut the tape. “Where's your doctor? Get him in here.”
“He lives in another part of the town. I didn't see him at the hall to-night,” said Britt. “I'll send for him.”
But Vaniman began to show such promising symptoms that the president delayed the message.
There seemed to be magic in the touch of Vona's caressing palm on the stricken man's forehead; the words she was murmuring in his ear were stirring his faculties. He opened his eyes and stared at her and at the two men, vague wonderment in his expression.
“What is it—what has happened?” he muttered.