Part 44 (2/2)
”Quick,” he said, grabbing her arm and leading her to a door. ”We'll hide here.” Now that danger, as he apprehended it, was definitely at hand, his spirits began to rise. He was of the kind which finds in suspense the greatest horror. They had barely reached the shelter of a door when Duncan and Gibbs ran in.
”Come on, Harry,” Duncan called to the slower man, ”he's upstairs. Get your gun ready.”
Nora clasped her lover's hand tighter. ”There'll be some real shooting,”
she whispered; ”I hope Alice doesn't get hurt. Listen!”
”The Chief's got him for sure,” Gibbs panted, making his ascent at the best speed he could gather.
”They've gone,” Nora said, peering out; then she ventured into the hall.
”Who's the chief?” she asked.
”The chief of police I guess,” he groaned. ”This is awful, Nora. I can't have you staying here with all this going on. Go back into the card-room, and I'll let you know what's happened as soon as I can.”
”But what are you going to do?” she asked.
”I'm going to wait for Steve; he's very likely to want me.”
”I'm not afraid,” Nora said airily.
”But I am,” he retorted; ”I'm afraid for you. Be a good girl and do as I say, and I'll come as soon as the trouble's over.”
”I just hate to miss anything,” she pouted. ”Still if you really wish it.” She looked at him more tenderly than he had ever seen her look at any human being before. ”Don't get killed, Monty, dear.”
Monty took her in his arms and kissed her. ”I don't want to,” he said, ”especially now.”
When the door had shut behind her he took out the necklace with the idea of secreting it in an unfindable place. He remembered a Poe story where a letter was hidden in so obvious a spot that it defied Parisian commissaries of police. But the letters were usual things and pearl necklaces were not, and he took it down from the mantel where for a second he had let it lie, and rammed it under a sofa-cus.h.i.+on on the nearby couch. That, too, was not a brilliant idea and, while he was wondering if the pearls would dissolve if he dropped them in a decanter of whiskey on a table near him, there were loud voices heard at the head of the stairway, and he fled from the spot.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When the Harringtons followed their butler into Denby's room, they were appalled at what they could not see but heard without difficulty. A strange voice, a harsh, coa.r.s.e voice rapping out oaths and imprecations, a man fighting with some opponent who remained silent. While they who owned the house stood helpless, Lambart turned on the lights.
The sudden glare showed them Denby was the silent fighter. The other man, a heavily built fellow, seemed for the moment blinded by the lights, and stopped for a second. And it was in this second that Denby uppercut him so that he fell with a thud to the floor.
Then they saw Denby pick up a revolver that was lying by the stranger's side.
”What's the matter?” cried Michael, while Lambart busied himself with making the room tidy and replacing overturned chairs.
”This man,” said Denby, still panting from his efforts, ”tried to break in, and Miss Cartwright and I got him.”
”Good Lord!” Michael e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.
”How splendid of you!” Alice cried. ”Ethel, you're a heroine, my dear.”
Taylor, who had not been put out by the blow, scrambled to his feet and was pushed into a chair. Denby stood conveniently near with the revolver a foot from his heart.
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