Van Deelen, gun in hand, retreated upward a few steps and barred the way. Beveridge looked at him, then he stepped quickly up and seized the gun by barrel and stock. The farmer could easily have shot him, but he made no attempt. And now the two men silently wrestled there, Van Deelen in the more advantageous position, but Beveridge showing greater strength than his figure seemed to promise. Finally, with a quick wrench, the special agent got possession of the weapon and passed it down to Smiley. “Now, Mister van Deelen,” he said, “will you please stand aside?”
For reply the farmer began retreating backward up the stairway, always facing Beveridge, who followed closely. Dick drew the shells from the gun, tossed it into the front room, and came after. The upper hall was square, and of the three doors around it only one was closed. Beveridge stepped into each of the open rooms, and then tried the door of the third, while Van Deelen stood sullenly by.
“Will you open this door?” Beveridge asked, with the beginnings of impatience.
No reply from the farmer. Smiley drew Beveridge aside and whispered, “Maybe it's true that she's sick in there.”
“Not much.”
“But we haven't found her anywhere around the house.”
“If she is there, she isn't alone.”
“But I kind of hate to break into a woman's room this way.”
“Don't get chicken-hearted, Dick.” He turned to the farmer and asked again, “Will you open this door?”
There was no reply.