Revolver in hand, he faced about and waited for the
assault of the men who, he was sure, would come plunging around the
corner of the building in response to the racket. He was confident
that the approach to the Tavern was watched by desperate men from
Green Fancy, and that an encounter with them was inevitable. But there
was no attack. Save for his repeated pounding on the door, there was
no sign of life about the place.
At last there were sounds from within. A key grated in the lock and a
bolt was shot. The door flew open. Mr. Clarence Dillingford appeared
in the opening, partially dressed, his hair sadly tumbled, his eyes
blinking in the light of the lantern he held aloft.
"Well, what the--" Then his gaze alighted on the lady. "My God," he
gulped, and instantly put all of his body except the head and one arm
behind the door.
Barnes crowded past him with his faltering charge, and slammed the
door. Moreover, he quickly shot the bolt.
"For the love of--" began the embarrassed Dillingford. "What the dev--
I say, can't you see that I'm not dressed? What the--"
"Give me that lantern," said Barnes, and snatched the article out of
the unresisting hand. "Show me the way to Miss Thackeray's room,
Dillingford.
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