“No, no, let me go, there’s no danger.”
“I know it,” replied West calmly; and, dragging Braith into the alley, pointed to the cellar steps. The iron door was barred.
“Colette! Colette!” he called. The door swung inward, and the girl sprang up the stairs to meet them. At that instant, Braith, glancing behind him, gave a startled cry, and pushing the two before him into the cellar, jumped down after them and slammed the iron door. A few seconds later a heavy jar from the outside shook the hinges.
“They are here,” muttered West, very pale.
“That door,” observed Colette calmly, “will hold forever.”
Braith examined the low iron structure, now trembling with the blows rained on it from without. West glanced anxiously at Colette, who displayed no agitation, and this comforted him.
“I don’t believe they will spend much time here,” said Braith; “they only rummage in cellars for spirits, I imagine.”
“Unless they hear that valuables are buried there.”
“But surely nothing is buried here?” exclaimed Braith uneasily.
“Unfortunately there is,” growled West. “That miserly landlord of mine—”
A crash from the outside, followed by a yell, cut him short; then blow after blow shook the doors, until there came a sharp snap, a clinking of metal and a triangular bit of iron fell inwards, leaving a hole through which struggled a ray of light.
Instantly West knelt, and shoving his revolver through the aperture fired every cartridge. For a moment the alley resounded with the racket of the