“Make 'em show us.”
“Suppose you can't make them?”
“I know—you're still thinking about that boy. But we are no nearer him than we were an hour ago.”
“Listen a minute!”
They sat motionless. There was no sound; nothing but the heavy stillness of the night.
Wilson whispered, “Think you heard something?”
“S-sh!”
A key turned softly in the lock. Then the door opened a little way, and against the sky they could see a head. Wilson drew his revolver. Beveridge heard the hammer click, and said quietly, “Don't be a fool, Bert. Put that thing back in your pocket.”
“Are you's in there?” came a voice from the door.
“Yes. Come along.”