“Hurry!  Here comes the watchman.”  Bob was gazing over his shoulder at the slowly approaching figure.  The watchman had his eyes fixed upon the old-fashioned vehicle and its dejected animal, wondering, no doubt, what brought such an antiquated rig into this most exclusive neighborhood.  He was within a few numbers of the Hammon house before Merkle solved the mysteries of the lock and the heavy portals swung open.  In another instant the door had closed 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.”

“We’re not going to leave you,” Merkle said, positively.

“No!” echoed Bob.  “I’ll wake up Orson while John telephones the doctor.”

But Hammon forbade Bob’s movement with a frown.  It was plain that despite his weakness his mind remained clear.  “Listen to me,” he ordered.  “Prop me up—­put me in that chair.  I’m choking.”  They did as he directed.  “That’s better.  Now, you mustn’t be seen here—­ either of you.  We can’t explain.”  He checked Merkle.  “I know best.  Go home; it’s only two blocks—­I’ll telephone.”

“You’ll ring for Orson quick?”

Hammon nodded.

“Rotten way to leave a man,” Bob mumbled.  “I’d rather stick it out and face the music.”

“Go, go!  You’re wasting time.”  Hammon’s brow was wrinkled with pain and anger.  “You’ve been good; now hurry.”

Merkle’s thin face was marked with deep feeling.

“Yes,” he agreed.  “There’s nothing else for us to do; but tell Orson to ’phone me quick.  I’ll be back here in five minutes.”  Then he and Bob stole out of the house as quietly as they had stolen in.