His voice rose and rang.
"Blow the lock off'n that door. We got him!"
There was an instant reply in the explosion of a gun, the crash of broken metal, the door swung slowly in, admitting a dim twilight into the room. The light showed Sinclair one thing—the dull outlines of Cartwright. He whipped up his gun and then hesitated. It would be murder. He had killed before, but never save in fair fight, standing in a clear light before his enemy. He knew that he could not kill this rat he detested. He thought of the wrecked life of the girl and set his teeth. Still he could not fire.
"Cartwright," he said softly, "I got you covered. Your right hand's on the floor with your gun. Don't raise that hand!"
In the shadow against the wall Cartwright moved, but he obeyed. The revolver still glimmered on the floor.
A new and desperate thought came to Sinclair—to rush straight for the window, shoot down the man on the ledge, and risk the leap to the ground. "Scatter back!" called the man on the ledge.
That settled the last chance of Sinclair. There were guards on the ground, scattered about the house. He could never get out that way.
"Keep out of the light by the door," commanded the man at the window. "And start shooting for the chest of drawers on the left-hand side of the room—and aim low down. It may take time, but we'll get him!"
Obviously the truth of that statement was too clear for Sinclair to deny it. He reviewed his situation with the swift calm of an old gambler. He had tried his desperate coup and had failed. There was nothing to do but accept the failure, or else make a still more desperate effort to rectify his position, risking everything on a final play.
He must get out of the room. The window was hopelessly blocked. There remained the open door, but the hall beyond the door was crowded with men.