“Then,—” the voice was very fluttery and agitated—“then wait a minute after I unlock the door.”
The bolt was slipped, and they could hear a frantic rustling and scampering. Van Deelen opened the door and entered the room with Beveridge and Smiley at his heels. As they entered, another door, evidently leading to a closet, was violently closed.
The three men stood a moment in the middle of the room without speaking, then Beveridge walked over to the bed. The woman lying there had turned to the wall and drawn the coverlet over her face. Beveridge bent over and jerked it back. “Smiley,” he called, “come here and see if this ain't your old friend, Estelle!”
The woman struggled to hide her face again, but Beveridge rudely held her quiet. Dick would have turned away but for the special agent's impatience. As it was he made him speak twice. Then he went slowly and shamefacedly to the bed. “Yes, I guess this is Estelle, all right.”
They saw her shudder. Her face was flushed with fever. Dick took Beveridge's arm and whispered, “For heaven's sake, Bill, don't be a beast.” But Beveridge impatiently shook him off.
“Well, Estelle,” he said, “the game's up. We've got them.”
Her eyes were wild, but she managed to repeat. “You've got them?”
“Yes. You 'll never see McGlory again.”
“And Pete—have you got Pete?” Beveridge glanced inquiringly at Smiley, who, after a moment of puzzling, nodded, and with his lips formed the name “Roche.”
“Yes, we've got Roche. Pretty lot they were to leave you here.”