"Be calm, dear, please," said Garrison, who had turned on her captors with an anger he could scarcely control. "You cowards! You infamous scoundrels!" he said. "Release those chains this instant, or I'll blow off the top of your head!" He demanded this of Theodore.
"The key isn't here," said the latter, intent upon gaining time since the burglar-alarm had been sprung. "I left it downstairs."
"I think you lie," said Garrison. "Get busy, or you'll have trouble."
"It's on his ring, with the key to the door," said Dorothy. "They've kept me drugged and stupid, but I saw as much as that."
Once more Garrison pushed the black muzzle of the gun against Theodore's body. The fellow cringed. The sweat stood out on his forehead. He dropped to his knees and, trembling with fear, fumbled with the keys.
"To think they'd dare!" said Dorothy, who with difficulty refrained from sobbing, in her anger, relief, and nervous strain.
Garrison made no reply. He was fairly on edge with anxiety himself, in the need for haste, aware that every moment was precious, with the town's constabulary doubtless already on the way to respond to the old man's alarm. The rights of the case would come too late, with his and Dorothy's story against the statements of the Robinsons, and he had no intention of submitting to arrest.
"You're wasting time—do better!" he commanded Theodore, and he nudged the gun under his ribs. "That's the key, that crooked one—use it, quick!"
Theodore dared not disobey. The chain fell away, and Dorothy ran forward, with a sob upon her lips.
"Don't hamper me, dear," said Garrison, watching the Robinsons alertly.
"Just get your hat, and we'll go."