The detective hurried to the door. There was no key in the lock. He clutched the handle—rattled it—pulled—The door did not budge.
“What’s up, sir?” Bill’s voice betrayed his apprehension.
“Locked!”
“Then we’re in for it.” It was not so much the words as the way they were spoken that impressed the secret service man.
“But—if it’s trouble, Bill, we must find a way out,” he said calmly.
“There is no way. They’re likely to come in on us through that door any minute now.” Bill’s voice was steady, but Sanborn knew he was attempting to conceal his strong excitement.
“If the door’s locked on the outside, we’d better barricade it on the inside.” He looked round the room for a suitable means of fortification, and his eyes fell upon the huge Lambert.
The man’s face was pale, almost haggard, and beads of sweat stood out upon his forehead. He was afraid.
In spite of their potential danger, Sanborn smiled as the thought struck him. “Here, Bill, give me a hand.”
Young Bolton immediately saw the possibility. Together the pair dragged the mutely protesting Lambert to the door, and planted him firmly in his chair against the panels. Over two hundred-weight of solid humanity—an effective barrier.