noiselessly, and the three were shut off from the street by a
barricade of iron grillwork and plate glass. Both Bob and Merkle
were weak from the narrowness of their escape, but the way was
still barred by another door, through which two elaborate H's
worked into French lace panels showed pallidly.

A second but briefer delay, and they stood in the gloom of the
marble foyer hall. Then they shuffled across the floor to the
great curving stairway. Both of Hammon's friends knew the house
well, and, guided only by their sense of touch, they labored
upward with their burden. The place was still, tomb-like; only the
faint, measured ticking of a clock came to them.

Hammon had assured them that there would be no one in the house
except Orson, his man, and some of the kitchen servants, the
others having followed their mistress to the country; nevertheless
the rescuers' nerves were painfully taut, and they tried to go as
silently as burglars. It was hard, awkward work; they collided
with unseen objects; their arms ached with the constant strain;
when they finally gained the library they were drenched with
perspiration. Merkle switched on the lights; they deposited the
wounded man on a couch and bent over him.

Hammon was not dead. Merkle felt his way into the darkened regions
at the rear and returned with a glass of spirits. Under his and
Bob's ministrations the unconscious man opened his eyes.

"You got me here, didn't you?" he whispered, as he took in his
surroundings. "Now go--everything is all right."