And at that moment he had a notion and acted upon it quickly. An old gas bracket over the door helped the operation. When he had finished he kicked over a chair and re-entered the now pitch dark room.
"I've got hold of the shutter bar," he heard her cry.
"Let her go," he answered.
And down in the hall below they heard the big alarm bell clang out the warning.
Clinging to each other's hands they waited, their backs flattened against the wall. And presently it came; the sound of men's footsteps dashing up the stairs. The door burst open and a number of dark shapes poured into the room. Framed in the open doorway, a black silhouette against the light from the well of the staircase, stood Blayney, a pistol in his hand.
There was a veritable hubbub of voices. "What's the matter with the lights?" "Where are the switches?" "Hell! that sucker is trying to put it over on us!" "The bedroom shutters—He's trying to escape." "For Lord's sake where's the door?"
Someone found the knob in the darkness and the bedroom door was flung open. There was a scream from Laurence. Then Hipps' voice bellowing:
"Great God! he's hanged himself."
Swinging from the lintel, shadowy against the grey light beyond was, apparently, the figure of Richard Frencham Altar dangling on a rope.
Even the perfectly trained Blayney deserted his post to leap forward and see, and in that instant of neglect, Richard and Auriole darted from the room and slammed and bolted the door.