“There’s nothing in the jail,” said Maydorf. “I haven’t got the key—”
“Go through him, Holley,” suggested the boy.
A quick search produced a bunch of keys, and Eden, taking them, handed Holley the gun. “I give old Shaky Phil into your keeping. If he tries to run, shoot him down like a rabbit.”
He took the flashlight from the car and, going over, unlocked the outer door of the jail. Stepping inside, he found himself in what had once been a sort of office. The moonlight pouring in from the street fell upon a dusty desk and chair, an old safe, and a shelf with a few tattered books. On the desk lay a newspaper. He flashed his light on the date—only a week old.
At the rear were two heavy doors, both with new locks. Searching among his keys, he unlocked the one at the left. In a small, cell-like room with high barred windows his flashlight revealed the tall figure of a girl. With no great surprise he recognized Evelyn Madden. She came toward him swiftly. “Bob Eden!” she cried, and then, her old haughtiness gone, she burst into tears.
“There—there,” said Eden. “You’re all right now.” Another girl appeared suddenly in the doorway—Paula Wendell, bright and smiling.
“Hello,” she remarked calmly. “I rather thought you’d come along.”
“Thanks for the ad,” replied Eden. “Say, you might get hurt running about like this. What happened, anyhow?”
“Nothing much. I came up to look round and he”—she nodded to Shaky Phil in the moonlit street—“told me I couldn’t. I argued it with him, and ended up in here. He
