“Mr Selmes. I have a plan. It might be worth trying.”
“Good God, Mrs Waybridge, go out of here! There’s one beast who can shoot, and you’re bang in the line of fire. Ah!”
With the very words a missile came humming between the two, splashing itself into the wall. Dick pulled her suddenly and forcibly out of the line of the open half-door.
“This is it,” she said, as coolly as though nothing had happened. “The rockets. Why not do something with the rockets?”
“The rockets! Ah!”
The words escaped him with a gasp, and the explanation of the idea was this. By way of adding to their Christmas festivities, now barely a week back, the Waybridges had imported a big box of fireworks. But they had not been used, thanks to an opportune suggestion from Harley Greenoak to the effect that, in the current state of alarm, the firing off of rockets might be misunderstood and cause a scare, under the impression that they were being sent up as signals of distress. Now they would come in for just that very purpose.
“The idea is splendid, Mrs Waybridge,” said Dick. “Will you get them out. I can’t leave my post.”
“I have got them out. One minute.”
She went into the other room, and immediately returned with quite a bundle of rockets, all attached ready to the sticks.
“Is Hazel all right?” he whispered eagerly.