The burglar in grey made two hasty steps to the window. Mr. Penfound’s revolver spoke—it was the one in his left hand, containing two shots—and with a muffled howl the burglar suddenly halted, cursing with pain and anger.
“Hands up, both of you!” repeated Mr. Penfound imperturbably.
A few drops of blood appeared on the left wrist of the older burglar, showing where he had been hit. With evident pain he raised both hands to the level of his shoulders; the left hand clearly was useless; it hung sideways in a peculiar fashion. The youthful criminal was trembling like a spray of maidenhair, and had his hands high up over his head.
Mr. Penfound joyfully reflected that no London burglar had ever before found himself in such a ridiculous position as these two, and he took a genuine, artistic pleasure in the spectacle.
But what to do next.
The youth began to speak with a whine like that of a beggar.
“Silence!” said Mr. Penfound impressively, and proceeded with his cogitations, a revolver firm and steady in each hand. The shot had evidently not wakened his wife, and to disturb her now from a refreshing and long-needed sleep in order to send her for the police would not only be unchivalrous, it would disclose a lack of resource, a certain clumsiness of management, in an affair which Mr. Penfound felt sure he ought to be able to carry neatly to an effective conclusion.
Besides, if a revolver-shot in the house had not wakened his wife, what could wake her? He could not go upstairs to her and leave the burglars to await his return.
Then an idea occurred to Mr. Penfound.
“Now, my men,” he said cheerfully, “I think you understand that I am not joking, and that I can shoot a bit, and that, whatever the laws of this country, I do shoot.” He waved the muzzle of one revolver in the direction of the grey man’s injured wrist.