“No; I’m sure.”
“How the devil did they get him?” he said, kneeling and running his fingers over Dangerfield’s head to assure himself that there were no contusions.
Inga shook her head.
“Some came through the door, and some over the roofs, I think,” she said. “When I saw them struggling, I didn’t wait.”
The room was in a fearful state. One tapestry had been half torn from the walls; a picture-frame lay smashed across the floor; a chair had been shattered, while the great Florentine table lay on its side with candlesticks, books, and platters showered over the rugs.
O’Leary cleared the room of all but Flick, Tootles, and Belle Shaler, who stayed to help Inga.
“Suppose we ought to notify the police,” he said, after Tootles had returned with the information that the party had driven away in an ambulance which had been waiting below.
“Perhaps—though I am not sure,” she said doubtfully, gazing at Dangerfield, who had not come out of his stupor.
“It’s a plain case—”
“I think I’d wait a while, if I were you,” said a voice that startled them.