sponded to his sense of touch—mind and soul were in turmoil—the bridge, the bridge, she was waiting for him, calling to him from there—his fingers tightened on the door until it seemed that the blood must spurt from the nail-tips to keep that voice from dragging them from their hold.
"Let me in!" he cried out hoarsely. "Let me in! I am Varge. I am Seven-seventy-seven."
It was dark there in the shadow of the doorway, and there was a vicious, threatening note in the guard's tones.
"Yes—like hell you are!" he snapped. "Go on, now—beat it! None of your funny joker business, or I'll let you in in a way you won't like! D'ye hear, beat it or—"
Varge was upon the door like a madman—a wild shout from the guard echoed back through the hallway and rang, reverberating, through the high, vaulted dome of the prison beyond.
In—he must beat his way in—tear his way in—now—another instant and he would turn and flee—in—in—IN! With all his Titanic strength he heaved against the door, and his muscles, leaping into play, hardened like knobs of steel.
For an instant there in the darkness there was no sound save of great breathing, while a form, curiously contorted into crouched shape bulked black against the doorway—then again, and once again, the guard's shout of alarm, full of a sudden terror now, rang out in a high-pitched yell. Came then a low, ominous noise of yielding things, steel and iron and wood—then the chain-lock, torn from its socket, clattered jangling against the steel door—the door shot wide and brought
