20. TRAPPED!

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      “Get the money,” said Ronicky to Jerry Smith.

      “There it is!”

      He pointed to the drawer, where McKeever, as banker, had kept the money. The wounded man in the meantime had disappeared.

      “How much is ours?” asked Jerry Smith.

      “All you find there,” answered Ronicky calmly.

      “But there’s a big bunch—large bills, too. McKeever was loaded for bear.”

      “He loses—the house loses it. Out in my country, Jerry, that wouldn’t be half of what the house would lose for a little trick like what’s been played on us tonight. Not the half of what the house would lose, I tell you! He had us trimmed, Jerry, and out West we’d wreck this joint from head to heels.”

      The diffident Jerry fingered the money in the drawer of the table uncertainly. Ronicky Doone swept it up and thrust it into his pocket. “We’ll split straws later,” said Ronicky. “Main thing we need right about now is action. This coin will start us.”

      In the hall, as they took their hats, they found big Frederic Fernand in the act of dissuading several of his clients from leaving. The incident of the evening was regrettable, most regrettable, but such things would happen when wild men appeared. Besides, the fault had been that of McKeever. He assured them that McKeever would never again be employed in his house. And Fernand meant it. He had discarded all care for the wounded man.

      Ronicky Doone stepped to him and drew him aside. “Mr. Fernand,” he said, “I’ve got to have a couple of words with you.”

      “Come into my private room,” said Fernand, eager to get the fighter out of view of the rest of the little crowd. He drew Ronicky and Jerry Smith into a little apartment which opened off the hall. It was furnished with an almost feminine delicacy of style, with wide-seated, spindle-legged Louis XV. chairs and a couch covered with rich brocade. The desk was a work of Boulle. A small tapestry of the Gobelins made a ragged glow of color on the wall. Frederic Fernand had recreated an atmosphere two hundred years old.

      He seated them at once. “And now, sir,” he said sternly to Ronicky Doone, “you are aware that I could have placed you in the hands of the police for what you’ve done tonight?”

      Ronicky Doone made no answer. His only retort was a gradually spreading smile. “Partner,” he said at length, while Fernand was flushing with anger at this nonchalance on the part of the Westerner, “they might of grabbed me, but they would have grabbed your house first.”

      “That fact,” said Fernand hotly, “is the reason you have dared to act like a wild man in my place? Mr. Doone, this is your last visit.”

      “It sure is,” said Ronicky heartily. “D’you know what would have happened out in my neck of the woods, if there had been a game like the one tonight? I wouldn’t have waited to be polite, but just pulled a gat and started smashing things for luck.”

      “The incident is closed,” Fernand said with gravity, and he leaned forward, as if to rise.

      “Not by a long sight,” said Ronicky Doone. “I got an idea, partner, that you worked the whole deal. This is a square house, Fernand. Why was I picked out for the dirty work?”

      It required all of Fernand’s long habits of self control to keep him from gasping. He managed to look Ronicky Doone fairly in the eyes. What did the youngster know? What had he guessed?

      “Suppose I get down to cases and name names? The gent that talked to you about me was John Mark. Am I right?” asked Ronicky.

      “Sir,” said Fernand, thinking that the world was tumbling about his ears, “what infernal—”

      “I’m right,” said Ronicky. “I can tell when I’ve hurt a gent by the way his face wrinkles up. I sure hurt you that time, Fernand. John Mark it was, eh?”

      Fernand could merely stare. He began to have vague fears that this young devil might have hypnotic powers, or be in touch with he knew not what unearthly source of information.

      “Out with it,” said Ronicky, leaving his chair.

      Frederic Fernand bit his lip in thought. He was by no means a coward, and two alternatives presented themselves to him. One was to say nothing and pretend absolute ignorance; the other was to drop his hand into his coat pocket and fire the little automatic which nestled there.

      “Listen,” said Ronicky Doone, “suppose I was to go a little farther still in my guesses! Suppose I said I figured out that John Mark and his men might be scattered around outside this house, waiting for me and Smith to come out: What would you say to that?”

      “Nothing,” said Fernand, but he blinked as he spoke. “For a feat of imagination as great as that I have only a silent admiration. But, if you have some insane idea that John Mark, a gentleman I know and respect greatly, is lurking like an assassin outside the doors of my house—”

      “Or maybe inside ‘em,” said Ronicky, unabashed by this gravity.

      “If you think that,” went on the gambler heavily, “I can only keep silence. But, to ease your own mind, I’ll show you a simple way out of the house—a perfectly safe way which even you cannot doubt will lead you out unharmed. Does that bring you what you want?”

      “It sure does,” said Ronicky. “Lead the way, captain, and you’ll find us right at your heels.” He fell in beside Jerry Smith, while the fat man led on as their guide.

      “What does he mean by a safe exit?” asked Jerry Smith. “You’d think we were in a smuggler’s cave.”

      “Worse,” said Ronicky, “a pile worse, son. And they’ll sure have to have some tunnels or something for get-aways. This ain’t a lawful house, Jerry.”

      As they talked, they were being led down toward the cellar. They paused at last in a cool, big room, paved with cement, and the unmistakable scent of the underground was in the air.

      “Here we are,” said the fat man, and, so saying, he turned a switch which illumined the room completely and then drew aside a curtain which opened into a black cavity.

      Ronicky Doone approached and peered into it. “How does it look to you, Jerry?” he asked.

      “Dark, but good enough for me, if you’re all set on leaving by some funny way.”

      “I don’t care how it looks,” said Ronicky thoughtfully. “By the looks you can’t make out nothing most of the time—nothing important. But they’s ways of smelling things, and the smell of this here tunnel ain’t too good to me. Look again and try to pry down that tunnel with your flash light, Jerry.”

      Accordingly Jerry raised his little pocket electric torch and held it above his head. They saw a tunnel opening, with raw dirt walls and floor and a rude framing of heavy timbers to support the roof. But it turned an angle and went out of view in a very few paces.

      “Go down there with your lantern and look for the exit,” said Ronicky Doone. “I’ll stay back here and see that we get our farewell all fixed up.”

      The damp cellar air seemed to affect the throat of the fat man. He coughed heavily.

      “Say, Ronicky,” said Jerry Smith, “looks