"Don't you move! Put your hands up!"
Behind him, Charlie yelped shrilly: "He can't understand English! He's a Mohican!"
But Alan's menace was enough; the fellow backed against the wall. His hands went up.
"You've got him! You've got him!"
"Charlie, shut up!"
A confusion of swift impressions surged upon Alan. A small, bare room with a vague glow of light. The girl was here! She stood near the Indian. Frightened, shrinking against the wall; but she saw Alan, recognized him. She took a step forward.
Charlie was making too much noise. The door through which Alan had burst was open. If Turber saw the glow of light—or heard Charlie's voice—or if any one else heard this uproar—
A confusion of instantaneous impressions.
"Charlie, shut up! You'll have the whole place aroused! Take the girl out—she'll go with you! Grab her arm—we'll make a run for it."
The girl understood. If not Alan's words, at least his swift gestures. She moved toward Charlie. Alan backed, his weapon leveled upon the Indian. "Go on! Run, Charlie! Get her out at once! I'll follow. Get us to the tennis court."