This appeal had its effect on the Samaritan. He unlocked the cell door,
after a cautious trying of half a dozen keys. Apparently his scruples
returned again; he stood irresolute in the cell doorway, turning the
searchlight on its yet unawakened occupant.

Peter swooped down from behind. His hands gripped the rescuer's ankles;
he heaved swiftly, at the same time lunging forward with head and
shoulders, with all the force of his small, seasoned body behind the
effort. The Samaritan toppled over, sprawling on his face within the
cell. With a heartfelt shriek the legal occupant leaped from his bunk and
landed on the intruder's shoulder blades. Peter slammed shut the door;
the spring lock clicked.

The searchlight rolled, luminous, along the floor; its glowworm light
showed Poole's unmasked and twisted face. Pete snatched the bunch of keys
and raced up the stairs, bending low to avoid a possible bullet; followed
by disapproving words.

At the stairhead, beyond the range of a bullet's flight, Peter paused.
Pandemonium reigned below. The roused prisoners shouted rage, alarm, or
joy, and whistled shrilly through their fingers, wild with excitement;
and from the violated cell arose a prodigious crash of thudding fists,
the smashing of a splintered chair, the sickening impact of locked bodies
falling against the stone walls or upon the complaining bunk, accompanied
by verbiage, and also by rattling of iron doors, hoots, cheers and
catcalls from the other cells. Authority made no sign.

Peter crouched in the darkness above, smiling happily. From the duration
of the conflict the combatants seemed to be equally matched. But the roar