“I suppose they smashed his typewriter because he used it for seditious work, and they probably pulled the backs off his books to see if he had anything hidden behind. They often get information that way,” I suggested.
“Nonsense, they take a pleasure in wanton destruction.”
“What’s that?”
There came into the street the noise of powerful engines. In two or three seconds the sound had risen to a loudness which filled every empty space. We threw up our heads, and Mrs. Slaney flushed.
I went to the window, drew the blind aside, and peered into the dark. Under the window there were blinding shafts of light from acetylene lamps, and pitch dark everywhere else. Two lorries had drawn up to the door, and men were leaping out.
“They’ve come again,” Mrs. Slaney exclaimed, her hand on her heart. “They’re after Mr. Figgis.”
There were two lorries, one a bomb-proof affair like a chicken coop, and the other unlike a chicken coop. Before Mrs. Slaney had stopped there came a thunderous knock on the door.
I held the door open for her, and she bustled out of the room and down the stairs. For a moment her voice dominated everything in the hall, and then it was lost in the noise of many men tramping into the hall and bounding up the ancient stairs. I made a dive for my MS.
“They’ll be coming in here,” I said. “It’ll be a beastly nuisance if they disarrange things. I wouldn’t be surprised if they found Figgis upstairs, only he’d be a fool to come.”
I had got the MS. in a bundle when the door was thrown open, and men covered with guns poured in. This was only a tributary of the main river, which continued to flow into the upper reaches of the house.