"Noa. 'E lit off down the road as fast as 'e cud make."
"Damn! We've missed 'im," roared Dirk.
"Which direction?"
"Away from village 'twas."
Dirk was tugging at Harrison Smith's sleeve and dragging him toward the
French windows.
"No, no," cried Smith, "the front way—it's quicker."
The two turned at the exact second Barraclough, entirely oblivious of their presence, walked into the room. The light flashed dully on the barrel of Harrison Smith's automatic.
"Put 'em up," he said, "put 'em up"—and as the order was obeyed—"Well met indeed, Barraclough, well met indeed."