A moment later there was a peremptory knock at the door.
"Come in!" growled Old Tom.
With eyes that scanned every cranny and nook and searched every face,
Locke stepped into the shack.
The men came forward a step, then halted. There was something in Locke's
face that showed that he was in deadly earnest and not to be trifled
with.
Locke looked from one to the other, then turned to Old Tom. "The wounded
man who was brought here," he demanded, "where is he?"
"There 'ain't been no wounded man brought here," retorted Old Tom.
The men crowded a little closer, all denying vehemently that any one had
entered.
At this instant a drop of blood fell on Locke's sleeve from the ceiling
above. Quickly he checked the impulse to look up, although he was
startled by it. He recovered himself on the instant and waited until
under a pretext he could divert their attention to something else. Then
he glanced hastily upward, as they looked in another direction. There,
forming slowly, was another drop of blood, and it was about to fall.
Locke had gained his object. As surely as though he had been brought
face to face with Paul, he knew that he was lying on the floor of the
attic above.
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