“Scatter-brained Englishman!” he exclaimed, half in jest. “Doesn’t it occur to you that Paulton may be, and probably is, waiting with a gun?”
I confess it had not occurred to me.
“Then how can we get out?” I asked quickly.
“Just wait,” he answered, “and I’ll show you.”
At this moment we heard voices in the house, apparently in the large entrance-hall—men’s gruff voices. Also there was a tramp of many footfalls. The murmur approached. A door opened and shut. Some of the men were coming along the passage in our direction.
They stopped abruptly, as they reached the pantry where we now stood. At once we saw they were policemen—plain-clothes men, in golf-caps and overcoats, yet by their cut, unmistakably policemen. They looked us up and down suspiciously. Then one of them spoke.
“Where are Paulton and his accomplices?” was the sharp inquiry.
“Somewhere in this house,” Whichelo answered. “I haven’t seen them yet.”
“Not seen ’em! Then why are you here?”
Whichelo produced a card, and handed it to the speaker. Then he unfolded a letter he had withdrawn from his breast-pocket, and handed him that too. This letter was from Thorold, dated some days previously. It contained a request that Whichelo should go to Houghton and begin to make arrangements for his return there.