He rarely stirred out of doors except on business, preferring to sleep and drink and smoke at home, and amuse himself with his own inscrutable and animal meditations. He was at home when Jill Trelawney and Stephen Weald arrived, and went down to open the door to them himself when he recognized the signal on the bell which showed that the visitors were friendly.
"Good-afternoon, Miss Trelawney," he said politely, for Harry Donnell prided himself on his accomplishments as a ladies' man. Her manner, however, cut short any courtesies.
"The Saint's after you," she said bluntly. "Where can we talk?"
He looked at her, and then led the way upstairs without a word.
They went up two flights of dingy, creaking stairs, for the first and ground floors were devoted to the sleeping accommodations of his gang. On the second floor he opened a door and showed them into a big, bare room, of which the principal articles of furniture appeared to consist of a rough deal table and a case of whisky. This room, like most of the others in the house, was lighted only by a small and dirty window which admitted hardly any light, and the gloom was made gloomier by the fog of stale tobacco smoke which hung in the air.
Donnell closed the door behind them.
"Did you say the Saint?"
"I did. Do you know him?"
Donnell drew back his lips from a row of black and broken teeth.
"I met him — once."
"You look like meeting him again," said the girl shortly.
Donnell was not immediately impressed. He took a pipe from his pocket and began to fill it from a tin on the table.
"What do you mean?"
"He's after you for that show at Essenden's. He came and told me that he was going to take you himself. We shut him up in the cellar and came to warn you ourselves. But he got away somehow and caught the same train as we did. Weald saw him. We didn't see him again at the other end, but he can't be far behind. In fact, I know how far behind he is. He knows I'm coming here and he's hanging just far enough behind to get me into the trap as well. He's after me, too."
Donnell looked from her to Weald.
"Is this a joke?" he demanded.
And Weald's face told him it was not a joke. He turned to the girl again.
"Why didn't you get me on the telephone?" he asked harshly. "Isn't that what it's here for?"
"The exchange told me that the trunk line was out of order," said Jill quietly. "And don't talk to me like that. I don't like it."
Donnell faced her cold gaze three seconds and then dropped his eyes.
"No offense," he muttered.
"Forget it," said the girl briskly. "We've got about three or four minutes, I should say, before Templar turns up. I'd like him to have a welcome. He'll be alone — I'm certain of that. What can you do about it?"
"There are half a dozen of the boys downstairs."
"Can you stop him getting in?"
Donnell grinned.
"I could stop an army," he bragged.
"Can you stop the Saint?"
"Haven't you seen round this house?" asked Donnell. "I've had it ready for years, just for something like this. I'll take you round, if you like, and you can see for yourself."
Jill tightened the belt of her coat.
"I'll look round on my own, if you don't mind," she said. "I know what to look for, and it probably isn't what you'd show me. Give Weald a drink while I'm gone — I guess he needs it."
She went out, and Donnell picked up a bottle and a glass. He poured out four good fingers of the spirit, and Weald grabbed it and drank it neat. Then he turned to Donnell; the fire-water had steadied him up a bit — in a way.
"You believe it isn't a joke?" he said.
Donnell nodded.
"Yes, I believe it now."
"I'm up against it," panted Weald flabbily. "I'm up against it much more than you are. They can only get you for a bashing, but they can get me for a lot more."
"Ever beat up a 'tec?"
"More than that. I can't tell you. They might. Donnell, you've got to get us out of this!"
Donnell's eyebrows came down.
"What do you mean, get you out of it? What about me?"
Weald clutched his arm.
"You don't understand. I've got to get away. I've got to take the girl with me. Is there any back way out of this — any bolt hole you've prepared? I've got money—"
Donnell thrust him roughly into a chair and pushed the whisky bottle towards him. Weald helped himself greedily to another half-glassful.
"Now you're talking," said Donnell. "How much?"
Weald dragged a note case from his pocket. It bulged. Donnell's eyes fastened on it hungrily.
"A thousand, Donnell. It's all I can spare. I've got to leave myself some money to get clear."
"Let's see it."
Feverishly Weald counted out the notes with shaking fingers and put them on the table. Donnell moistened his thumb and counted them deliberately. Then he put them in his pocket.
"That cupboard behind you," he said. "The back of it's a sliding door. You'll find some stairs. Go right down. There's a tunnel under the block and the street, and it comes up in the cellar of a house on the other side."
"But you've got to hold Templar up."
Donnell struck his chest with a huge fist.
"Me? I'll hold the Saint up. I don't run away from anyone — but you can clear out when you want to. You'd be more trouble than use, anyway."
Weald swallowed the taunt without a protest.
"All right. As soon as the girl comes back you get out and say you're going to warn your gang. I'll look after the rest."
Donnell sat down heavily on a truckle bed in one corner. He took a massive revolver from his pocket, spilled the cartridges into his hand, and squinted up the barrel. He spun the cylinder with his fingers, tested the hammer action to his satisfaction, and reloaded the gun methodically.
"What's the idea?" he asked laconically. "You sweet on her?"
Weald nodded, with the bottle in his hand.
"That's not the half of it. I've been wanting her for months. I thought I'd do it gradually, working with her and making her like me. But there isn't time for any more fooling about. If the police are going to get me I'm going to get her first. I don't care if it's the last thing I do. Donnell — on the train — she was sneering at me!"
"Anyone would," said Donnell unemotionally. "A white-livered rat like you!"
Weald wiped his mouth. The whisky was going to his head.
"I'm not a white-livered rat, Donnell!" he blustered.
"You're a white-livered rat and a yellow cur at the same time," said Donnell without heat, testing the sights of his Colt on the whisky bottle.
Weald lurched towards him.
"Donnell, you take that back!"
"Don't be a blasted nuisance," said Donnell impatiently.
He took Weald's shoulder in a huge hand and pushed him away. Then Jill Trelawney came into the room.
"I've seen all I want to see," she said. "Donnell, will you go down and rouse up the boys?"
"I was just going to, Miss Trelawney," said Donnell heavily.
He went to the door and leered, behind her back, at Weald. Then he went out, and Weald heard him clumping heavily down the stairs.
"I didn't say you were to drink a whole bottle," remarked Jill, surveying Weald's unsteady balance.
"You don't understand, Jill. I've been finding a way out."
He walked rockily to the cupboard that Donnell had indicated and dragged open the doors. After some fumbling he was able to open the sliding door at the back, and then he found a switch. The light showed a flight of steps leading down into a damp and musty darkness.
"Our way out!" declaimed Weald grandiosely.
"Very interesting," said the girl, "but we don't happen to be going that way."