“A settlement, then, should be easily arrived at,” said Margate, resuming. “As a matter of fact, so far as I and my two friends here are concerned, there is nothing else to it. There is nothing——”
“Oh, yes, there is! There is much more to it!”
The interruption, one that turned the scene into a tumult, was shouted from outside.
It was followed by the crash of the French window, through which came Chick Carter and Patsy Garvan, weapons drawn and with four policemen at their heels.
Others were battering down the back door.
Others were stationed at the front.
A shout of satisfaction from Nick Carter was drowned by a roar of dismay from the Baron Esterveldt, a shriek of mingled fear and fury from Irma Valaska, and oaths and imprecations from knaves instantly involved in a vain but terrific struggle.
Only one man succeeded in making a move for liberty—Andy Margate.
He sprang through the parlor door, as quick as a cat and defiant of the bullet that whizzed by his head. Two bounds took him across the room. He did not seek the front door of the house, knowing it must be guarded.
Without an instant’s hesitation, a devil indeed when cornered, he leaped straight through a side window, carrying away panes and sashes, and alighted in the side yard.