“Who’s there? Go way from me! Damn—”
They leaped up at the sound of the “Kid’s” stumbling gallop. He burst into the room, and they saw that his face was the color of ashes.
“For God’s sake, who’s in that room—my room?” he cried, staring at them through straining, glassy eyes. “Come on, you fellows! Here, I’ll take a flashlight—the globe must be burned out!”
He snatched up an electric torch and led the way back through the hall, the Strangler at his shoulder, “Doc” some distance behind.
“Someone let out a groan when I went inside the door,” the “Kid” was explaining. “And then he says right in my ear, ‘This ain’t your room, Kid!’ Listen!”
They were within five feet of the bedroom door when the “Kid” paused and held up a trembling hand. He was directing the light of the torch upon the doorway. And at that moment there came from it a groan, followed by a muttered protest.
“My room!” a voice within the room said distinctly.
“Holy Mother!” whispered the Strangler. “That sounds like Louie! He must be hurt!”
“How in hell would he get in there?” protested the “Kid.” “Come on—let’s see!”
They stepped inside the room, and the ray of the flashlight began to circle it. Suddenly the circling beam came to a stop.