Then his quick wits were put
to their ultimate test.
Right, left, it seemed from all about him, came swiftly pattering
footsteps! Instantly he divined the truth. Losing his tracks upon
the highroad above, a section of his pursuers had surrounded the
station, believing that he would head for it in retreat.
Paul Harley whipped off his coat in a flash, and using it as a
ram, smashed the window. He reached up, found the catch, and
opened the sash. In ten seconds he was in the room, and a great
clatter told him that he had overturned some piece of furniture.
Disentangling his coat, he sought and found the electric torch.
He pressed the button. No light came. It was broken! He drew a
hissing breath, and began to grope about the little room. At last
his hand touched the telephone, and, taking it up:
"Hello!" he said. "Hello!"
"Yes," came the voice of the operator--"what number?"
"City 8951. Police business! Urgent!"
One, two, three seconds elapsed, four, five, six.
"Hello!" came the voice of Innes.
"That you, Innes?" said Harley. And, interrupting the other's
reply: "I am by no means safe, Innes! I am in one of the tightest
corners of my life. Listen: Get Wessex! If he's off duty, get
Burton. Tell him to bring--"
Someone leaped in at the broken window behind the speaker.
Resting the telephone upon the table, where he had found it,
Harley reached into his hip pocket and snapped out his automatic.
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