With a warning glance at Metcalfe, and a glare at me, the good lady left the room.
She was away about twenty minutes. On returning she dismissed the servant, and seating herself, wheeled round in her chair, to turn all her batteries upon my unhappy self. Her voice was, I fancied, a shade less stately, a shade sharper, a shade brisker, and more business-like:
"What's your little game?"
CHAPTER XII.
JOHN CARLETON'S BURGLAR ALARM.
I stared at her blankly.
"Game?" I said. "Game? I haven't any game. You've heard my story. It's the truth. I haven't anything else to tell or any game to play. What do you take me for?"
"Rats!" she answered, shortly.
Then she strode over to a side table upon which lay a square box with a button, like that of an electric bell.
"Have you ever seen one of these?" she inquired, pointing at it. "It is my brother's own invention, and he is thinking of patenting it. When this button is pressed (there's one of the machines in each room), every door leading out of the house, and every window (they are all of plate glass) by which it would be possible to escape, is simultaneously and automatically locked; a burglar alarm is set ringing in the kitchen, in the hall, and in all the men-servants' rooms, as well as in the stables; and by a particularly ingenious arrangement, of which my brother is especially proud, communication is also established with the nearest police station. Once inside the house, no thief, or burglar, if this button is pressed and the machinery is set going, can hope to escape, for he is as neatly trapped as any rat.