Clancy, shifting his eyes toward the drawn curtain, whirled like lightning. In a flash he had knocked aside the pistol in his captor’s hand and had overthrown him. As the young man dropped, fire streamed through the curtained doorway. A revolver roared in the other room and a bullet crashed into a piece of china on the sideboard and then broke the heavy French mirror behind it into a thousand fragments.
If Clancy had not been quick, that bullet would have struck the young fellow with the gun, for it traversed a line that crossed the exact point where he had been standing.
The young fellow was quick-witted, and, while at first he may have misunderstood Clancy’s action, the crash of the bullet gave him knowledge of the true state of affairs.
“There they go!” cried Clancy.
“Keep back, if you’re not armed!” shouted the other, bounding erect and dashing through the door.
Clancy was ahead of him, but, swift as they were, they were too late. The prowlers had flung themselves through the window, and wild yells were coming from the yard, where Fortune, single-handed, was having all and more than he could attend to.
There was excitement in other parts of the great house. Voices were calling, doors were opening and closing, and feet could be heard running down the stairs and over hardwood floors.
The young fellow stood in the window with the automatic revolver in his hand.
“I’ll give one of them his gruel, anyway,” he muttered.
Before he could shoot, Clancy grabbed his arm.