Billy was not among those who tried to break through the doors—he was dodging among the charging force sent in by the loud orders to "get him."
Click! The room was suddenly shrouded in darkness, penetrated a little distance only by the lights beyond the entrance of the lounging room section.
The pursuing force, working from several directions, ran into one another's arms. The pianist, familiar with the place, leaped for the electric switch, and turned on the flood of light.
Everybody was present but the singer!
Henri had a perch on the keyboard of the piano, which he had sought to save a mad tramping on his feet.
"Set you to catch a weasel," sneered Roque, as the sandy-haired man stood staring at the shattered casement of the tall window overlooking an inner court of the hotel.
"He can't get clear away," retorted the sandy one.
"Stop him then," challenged Roque. "Don't stand there like a stoughton bottle."
The pursuers scoured the building from bottom to top, and every street and alley roundabout, but it was a case of looking for a needle in a haystack.
Roque was in a black mood. Once more baffled by his cunning chief adversary, the only one he acknowledged in his own class, and on his own stamping ground—it was a bitter dose for the master craftsman.