The door leading from the bar to the tap-room was thrust open. Gordon put his head in.
“I left Bates on guard outside, sir,” he said in answer to an interrogatory glance from Matthews, “I’ve been all over the ground floor and there’s not a soul here...”
He checked himself suddenly.
“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, his eyes on the figure crouching in the corner, “you don’t mean to say you’ve got her? A pretty dance she led Dug and myself! Well, sir, it looks to me like a good night’s work!”.
Matthews smiled a self-satisfied smile.
“I fancy the Chief will be pleased,” he said, “though the rest of ’em seem to have given us the slip. Gordon, you might take a look upstairs—that door in the corner leads to the upper rooms, I fancy—whilst I’m telephoning to Mr. Okewood. He must know about this without delay. You, Harrison, keep an eye on the girl!”
He went through the door leading into the bar, and they heard him speaking on the telephone which hung on the wall behind the counter. He returned presently with a white tablecloth which he threw over the prostrate figure on the floor.
Then he turned to the dancer.
“Stand up,” he said sternly, “I want to speak to you.”
Nur-el-Din cast a frightened glance over her shoulder at the floor beside the table where Rass lay. On seeing the white pall that hid him from view, she became somewhat reassured. She rose unsteadily to her feet and stood facing Matthews.