“You’ll see,” said I.
I took up the little iron table. It was not very heavy for a man of my strength, and I held it by the legs. The top, protruding in front of me, made a complete screen for my head and body. I fastened my closed lantern to my belt and put my revolver in a handy pocket. Suddenly I saw the door move ever so slightly—perhaps it was the wind, perhaps it was a hand trying it outside.
I drew back as far as I could from the door, holding the table in the position that I have described. Then I called out:
“Gentlemen, I accept your offer, relying on your honour. If you will open the door—”
“Open it yourself,” said Detchard.
“It opens outwards,” said I. “Stand back a little, gentlemen, or I shall hit you when I open it.”
I went and fumbled with the latch. Then I stole back to my place on tiptoe.
“I can’t open it!” I cried. “The latch has caught.”
“Tut! I’ll open it!” cried Detchard. “Nonsense, Bersonin, why not? Are you afraid of one man?”
I smiled to myself. An instant later the door was flung back. The gleam of a lantern showed me the three close together outside, their revolvers levelled. With a shout, I charged at my utmost pace across the summer-house and through the doorway. Three shots rang out and battered into my shield. Another moment, and I leapt out and the table caught them full and square, and in a tumbling, swearing, struggling mass, they and I and that brave table, rolled down the steps of the summerhouse to the ground below. Antoinette de Mauban shrieked, but I rose to my feet, laughing aloud.