Suddenly I became conscious that he had found his way to the stairs and was rapidly approaching the door, which was all that lay between me and his revengeful fury.
Bracing myself against the opposite wall, I raised the old gun, and, deliberately aiming it, waited.
He began by pounding with both fists on the door, but, not receiving any answer, he tried threats. An instinct seemed to tell him I would remain on guard.
His language, I must confess, while threatening, was not abusive. It was, in fact, incredibly elegant for a burglar, and strictly grammatical.
All at once there came a crash, followed by the creaking of heavy timber, and the door fell. Down he came on top of it, sprawling at my feet on the floor. I raised my gun and fired.
“Hit him?” I interrupted.
“No,” replied Miss Gwynne; “here in the wall of the dining-room the bullet lodged, and is still there.”
The next thing I was conscious of was Mrs. Griffiths bending over me, and her husband's voice exclaiming:
“He'd never have escaped if we had not left that door open when we came in. You see we got home just in time to hear you fire the gun, and as we ran in he ran out. Drat him!”
I raised myself on my elbow and looked eagerly about.