The headlong speed at which Reggie drove soon brought them to the vicinity of Inwood, and following the faltering directions of Fleming, they drew up before a little house that was a block away from any of its neighbors.
They tiptoed up the steps, Joe having his hand so tightly on Fleming’s collar that his knuckles ground into his neck.
“You know what you’ve got to do, Fleming,” he whispered. “If you don’t do it——”
His grip tightened and his fist clenched.
Trembling, Fleming opened the front door with his latchkey, and the party went softly through the hall. They stopped in front of a door from behind which a man was heard talking.
“I’m sorry to have to incommode you, Miss Varley,” he was saying in suave polished tones that the boys recognized at once as Braxton’s. “But unfortunately it is necessary to the success of my plans. You can’t complain that we haven’t treated you with perfect respect outside of the little violence we had to use to get you into the car.”
There was no reply, but the party could hear the sound of sobbing.
“Knock,” whispered Joe, emphasizing the command by a twist of Fleming’s collar.
Fleming knocked.
“Who’s there?” came from within.