across the room. He understood it all. Polly had seen the murder
and had recognised the assassins. Old Dwyer was a traitor. He
had slipped out and warned the ruffians of the peril in which they
stood, and now they were here to seal their own safety by another
crime --by the sacrifice of a life far dearer to Harold than his
own.

Swiftly, silently, he sped down the gloomy passage. The lives
of all beneath that roof were hanging on his speed. Breathless he
reached the little door, and flung himself against it with all his
weight while his trembling fingers groped in the darkness for bolt
or bar.

A heavy hand was laid on the latch, and the door was tried from
without.

"How's this, Peter?" inquired the rough voice. "I thought ye said
it wasn't locked."

"No more it is; it's only stiff it is, bad cess to it. Push hard,
yer sowl ye."

But at this moment Harold's hand encountered the bolt. With a sigh
of relief he shot it into the socket, and then, searching farther,
he supplemented the defences with a massive bar, which, he knew,
ought always to be in place at night.

Then he sped back along the passage, while muttered curses reached
his ears from without, and the door was shaken furiously.