THE INTRUDER
By Reginald Barlow
Midwinter, bitterly cold.
Having entered the house, I drew the blinds and lit the gas-logs, stretched myself in an armchair, and dozed. A strange feeling crept over me; some one else was in the room.
I slowly opened my eyes; they stared straight into a gun-muzzle; my hands flew up.
“Stand up!”
I stood.
The other hand deftly extracted my revolver.
“Sit down!”
I sat.
“Rotten weather!”
I agreed.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
“Basement window. How d’you?”
“Front door, of course.”
He looked quizzically. “Ain’t Richman coming home to-night?”
“Certainly not; don’t expect him.”
“That’s funny. Where’s the servants?” The curtains behind him trembled.
“With the Richmans, Atlantic City,” I informed. “Why not call when he’s home?” I inquired. A gun, hand, and arm divided the curtain.
“Right; feel warmer now; must get to work.”
“Been here before?” I asked, as the newcomer, tall and strong, covered the bullet-head before me.
“Sure. Remember the burglary in this house five years ago? Well, I was on that job. Another night like this. I sneaked up——”
“Biff!” The newcomer landed squarely. “Cord in that drawer,” he said. “Tie him up.”
I obeyed.
“You’re Mr. Jones, I believe!—I’m Mr. Richman,” he continued. “My agent wired that I’d find you here. Knew I’d be late, so sent you the key. What’s the matter with our friend?”
Our prisoner had come to, gasping, “You Richman?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Burns, Headquarters. Damn you, I’ll pinch you, too——”
He raved on. Richman lifted the ’phone. Found it out of order. I knew he would.
“Police Station is two blocks south,” he informed me. “Go and notify them. I’ll take care of this noisy person.”
“Damn fool! He’s a crook!” bawled the helpless one.
“He thinks you’re as bad as himself,” laughed Richman.
“How did you learn of my danger?” I inquired.
“I borrowed a basement key from the servants. On entering I heard voices up here; crept upstairs, peeped through the curtains, saw your predicament, and nailed the fellow.”
“I’m eternally grateful,” I said warmly.
“Don’t mention it. Now, go for the police, like a good fellow.”
“Surely. Take care of yourself,” I said. Entering the hall, I lifted a heavy fur coat as the thud of footsteps approached the front steps. I opened the door quickly and faced the newcomer, closing it behind me.
“Pardon! Is Mr. Richman in?” he inquired.
“Are you Jones?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Richman is waiting for you. Pardon my haste. Let yourself in. You have a key.”
My bag was very heavy, being full of Richman’s silver and a few thousand dollars’ worth of jewellery, but I made good time through the snow.
I remembered Richman saying the Police Station was two blocks south—which, of course, explains why I went north.