There was no response.
“Ralph!” he repeated. “Quick! The police are below!”
And he tugged frantically at the door. But it was securely fastened.
He was caught—like a rat in a trap!
Bending, he peered through the keyhole, surprised to discover that the table had been moved. He could see, too, that the matting had been cast aside, revealing the trap-door. That house had long been the abode of thieves. Bonnemain himself had lived in those same rooms for six years, and he had had the secret exit constructed. More than once it had been used, and the fugitive escaped by that secret way.
In a moment the grim truth flashed across Adolphe’s mind. Ansell had for some reason bolted the door, and had forgotten to unlock it before escaping.
But why had he not warned him?
The voices outside were now raised, and he could hear the tramp of several other men over the moss-grown stones of the weedy courtyard.
Not a second was to be lost; therefore, taking up one of the rush-bottomed chairs and raising it above his head, he advanced to the door and brought it down with a crash upon the panel just over the lock.