The quick opening of a door, the heavy tread of men’s feet, mingled with a harsh, commanding voice, which he instantly recognized to be that of Gaston Goulard—these were the sounds that suddenly fell upon Patsy’s ears.
“Open that panel door, Bolton, and give us more light,” Goulard was crying. “Lug him up here, Nelson, and be quick about it. Lend him a hand, Bart. We’ll hide the infernal dick in the engine room till we can dispose of him. Work lively. I must phone to Lombard and make sure that all is well before I return.”
“Great Scott!” thought Patsy, before half of the fore[{36}]going was said. “I’m in wrong, all right, against odds which—hang it! here’s my best chance.”
Patsy had caught sight of the Persian shawl hanging over the side of the table. As quick as a flash, dropping to the floor, he rolled under the table and back of the folds of the shawl, which for a moment, at least, served to shelter him like a curtain.
He scarce had accomplished this and checked the slight disturbance of the hanging shawl, when the panel flew open, and Nolan and Bart Bailey roughly rolled Chick Carter, then bound hand and foot, down the flight of steps to the engine-room floor.
“Lie there, blast you, until we’re ready to hand you something more,” Bailey cried, with a snarl. “Meddle with our business, will you? We’ll send you to the devil for it.”
“Leave him there,” snapped Goulard sharply. “Leave him there and close the door. Wait here, you three, while I phone to Lombard. There’s no telling what these Carters may have done, or will do. I’ll find out in a couple of minutes.”
Patsy heard his strident voice even after the panel door was closed. He also heard him rush through the hall, evidently to a telephone in the rear part of the store.
Patsy did not wait to hear more. He whipped out his knife and rolled from under the table, giving Chick, who was only a bit bruised by his fall down the steps, the surprise of his life.
“Eureka! You here, Patsy?” said he quietly.