But he would not be baffled—he would have reprisals.
He jumped on to the top of the stone facing of the balustrade which ran in front of the house, and, broom in hand, struck a defiant attitude.
“Don’t you think to master me, you vile, dirty slut,” he ejaculated; and, with these words, he aimed a blow at his enemy, who very prudently retired into the interior of the room.
The only effect the blow had was to smash one of the front windows.
“If I can only get in,” muttered Peace, “I shall be all right. I’ll soon silence that old Jezebel. Without doubt she has been left in charge of the house. I’ll give it her, worth her money, when I do get in. Curse it, how my head aches!”
He balanced himself on the top of the stonework, as deftly as ah acrobat; then he caught the edge of the balcony with the big end of his broom, and was preparing himself for a final spring when another actor came upon the scene.
A buxom servant girl appeared at the open window. She was armed with a mop.
Seeing that Peace was about to scale the balcony, she threw out the mop much the same as a Zulu does his spear, and delivered such a terrific blow on Peace’s face that he was hurled back, and fell upon the gravel path in front in a state of insensibility.
The old woman and her maid were masters of the field. Their foe remained prostrate and helpless in front of the citadel.
Again the cries “Help! Police!” rose in the air. They resounded far and near.