The three men made to obey; the orderlies were a brawny, hardy pair. Greg's heart sunk—not at the fear of being hurt, but at the intolerable prospect of having Amy see him physically humiliated. He put his back against the wall.
"Keep your hands off me," he said in a dangerous voice, "and I'll go." To the doctor he added significantly: "Call them off if you don't want a nasty row in the house."
It worked. The plump doctor quailed at the thought of a row. "Let him alone," he muttered, "if he'll go quietly."
Greg strode out of the room and down the stairs as deliberately and coolly as he had gone up. The three men pressed close after him, longing to throw him down headlong, but not daring. At the foot of the stairs curiosity got the better of the plump doctor and he changed his tone.
"Come into the office," he said, "and let's talk things over."
"Go to Hell," said Greg.
CHAPTER XVII
THE YOUNG MAN WITH THE LITTLE BLACK MUSTACHE
As Greg proceeded along the street to rejoin Hickey, he measured with his eye the distance from the porch floors to the window overhead. All the houses were of the same design. "Twelve feet," he said to himself; "a ten-foot ladder will do."
"Let's go home," he said to Hickey. "We've got to lay plans for an attack after midnight."