I named over the members of Carpenter’s party who had stayed with him.  Andy Lynch, the ex-soldier, was probably a useful man, and we would get his help.  We would get rid of Hamby, and then we would wait for T-S and his siren.  By the time these plans were thoroughly talked out, we had reached the building in which the headquarters were located.  There were lights in the main room upstairs, and the door which led up to them was open.  The street was apparently deserted, and we did not stop to look for any “operatives,” but left our machine and stole quietly upstairs and into the room.

LV

Comrade Abell sat at the table, with his head bowed in his arms, sound asleep.  Lynch, the ex-soldier, and Tom Moneta, the Mexican, were lying on the floor snoring.  And on a chair near the doorway, watching the scene, sat Hamby, wide awake.  We knew he was awake, because he leaped to his feet the instant we entered the door.  “Oh, it’s you!” he said, recognizing me; I noted the alarm in his voice.

I beckoned to him, softly.  “Come here a moment;” and he came out into the ante-room.  At the same time Old Joe stepped across the big room, and stooped down and waked up Lynch.  We had agreed that Joe was to give Lynch a whispered explanation of the situation, while I kept Hamby busy.

“Where is Mr. Carpenter?” I asked.

“He’s in the private office, praying.”

“Well,” said I, “there’s a sick woman who needs help very badly.  I wonder if we’d better disturb him.”

“I don’t know,” said Hamby.  “I’ve been here an hour, and haven’t heard a sound.  Maybe he’s asleep.”

I was uncertain what I should do, and I elaborately explained my uncertainty.  Of course, praying was an important and useful occupation, and I knew that the prophet laid great stress upon it, and all of us who loved him so dearly must respect his wishes.

“Yes, of course,” said Hamby.

Yet at the same time, I continued, this woman was very ill, a case of ptomaine poisoning—­

“Do you think he can cure that?” asked Hamby guilelessly; and at that moment Old Joe and Lynch came from the big room.  Hamby started to turn, but he was too late.  Old Joe’s arms went around him, and Hamby’s two elbows were clamped to his sides, in a grip which more than one professional wrestler in our part of the world has found it impossible to break.  At the same time I stooped on my knees and grasped the man’s two wrists; because we were taking no chances of his gun.  Lynch, the ex-soldier, had a cloth, taken from the big table, and he flung this over the head of the “pacifist” and stifled his cries.