“That’s a mistake other people have made and regretted,” Lawrence remarked.

“Well,” said Walters, “I demand to be let out.”

Foster shook his head.  “I think not.  The room is comfortable, and you won’t be here long.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Hand you to the police.”

“On what ground?”

“Attempted murder, to begin with,” said Foster dryly.

Walters turned to the manager.  “A man can’t be arrested without a warrant.  I guess you understand you’re making trouble for yourself by permitting these fellows to lock me in.”

“I don’t know if it’s quite legal or not,” Foster admitted, addressing the manager, who looked irresolute.  “Anyhow, you’re not responsible, because we’re going to take the matter out of your hands.  Besides, you haven’t much of a staff just now and couldn’t interfere.”

“In a way, that’s so,” the manager doubtfully agreed.  “I don’t want a disturbance in my hotel; I’ve had enough.”

“Very well,” said Walters, seeing he could expect no help from him.  “But I’m not going to have this wooden-faced Scotchman in my room.  The fool won’t let me move.  If you don’t take him away, I’ll break the furniture.  I can do that, although I’m not able to throw the big brute out.”

Foster walked to the window, which he opened.  It was some distance from the ground and there was nothing that would be a help in climbing down.  Besides, Walters did not look capable of trying to escape.

“We’ll take him away,” he said, and beckoning Pete and the manager, went out.  He locked the door on the other side and resumed:  “Send up a comfortable chair, a blanket, and a packet of tobacco.  If there’s any trouble, you can state that you acted on compulsion and we’ll support you, but I rather think you can seize and hold a criminal when you catch him in the act.  Stop here until I relieve you, Pete.”

Pete nodded and the others went to the dining-room.  After dinner, Foster took his turn on watch, but by and by Pete reappeared, holding the page by the arm.  He signed to Foster, who went down the passage to meet him.

“I thought I’d maybe better tak’ a look roon the back o’ the hoose and found the laddie aneath the window.  He had a bit paper in his hand.”

Foster told him to watch Walters’ door, and frowned at the lad.

“I reckon you’d sooner keep out of jail.”

“Sure,” said the lad, with an effort at carelessness; “I’m not going to get in.”

“Well,” said Foster grimly, “you’re taking steep chances just now.  The police will be here to-morrow and there’ll be trouble if they know you tried to help their prisoner escape.  Where’s the telegram he threw you down?”

“It wasn’t a telegram.”

“A letter’s just as bad.  The wisest thing you can do is to give it me.”

The lad hesitated, but let him have the crumpled envelope.  “I was to give it one of the train hands when the next freight stops for water.”