“Are you afraid?” mocked Rathburn. “It’s me they want––don’t worry. I may make a break for it, an’ if I do there’s likely to be powder burned. You can stay here an’ get out when they take after me, if I go,” said Rathburn, and the sneer in his voice caused Lamy to flush uncomfortably.
Rathburn petted the gun in his hand. “But before I make a break I want to tell you something that I should have told you before this, when I had more time–––”
He bit off his speech as there came a sudden recurrence of the sounds in the house. The trapdoor closed down.
“Where’s the cellar?” came the sheriff’s authoritative voice.
Many feet tramped upon the floor above them. Then they heard the rug stripped back. There was an exclamation from the sheriff and the sound of moving feet suddenly was stilled.
“Is there any one in the cellar?” the sheriff called.
Silence––with Lamy pressing Rathburn’s knee with a hand, and Rathburn smiling that queer, grim smile which conveyed so much, yet nothing which was tangible.
“Get around here, you fellows,” they heard the sheriff order.
The sound of boots and spurs attested to the quickness with which his order was obeyed.