A stout man with a blonde moustache was on the stairs, in his pyjamas like the boys.
“What are you doing here?” said he.
“There has been an attempt upon your house,” said I, still spokesman for the night, and still on the wings of inspiration.
“Your sons—”
“My pupils.”
“Indeed. Well, they heard it, drove off the thieves, and have given chase.”
“And where do you come in?” inquired the stout man, descending.
“We were bicycling past, and I actually saw one fellow come head-first through your pantry window. I think he got over the wall.”
Here a breathless boy returned.
“Can’t see anything of him,” he gasped.