“Nobody,” said Reale testily. “I’ve got a special house for the servants, and they come in every morning after I’ve unfixed my—burglar-alarms.” He grinned, and then a look of alarm came into his face.
“The alarms!” he whispered; “you broke them when you came in, Jimmy. I heard the signal. If there’s some one in the house we shouldn’t know it now.”
They listened.
Down below in the hall something creaked, then the sound of a soft thud came up.
“He’s skipped the rug,” whispered Jimmy, and switched out the light.
The two men heard a stealthy footstep on the stair, and waited. There was the momentary glint of a light, and the sound of some one breathing heavily. Jimmy leant over and whispered in the old man’s ear.
Then, as the handle of the door was turned and the door pushed open, Jimmy switched on the light.
The newcomer was a short, thick-set man with a broad, red face. He wore a check suit of a particularly glaring pattern, and on the back of his head was stuck a bowler hat, the narrow brim of which seemed to emphasize the breadth of his face. A casual observer might have placed him for a coarse, good-natured man of rude but boisterous humor. The ethnological student would have known him at once for what he was—a cruel man-beast without capacity for pity.
He started back as the lights went on, blinking a little, but his hand held an automatic pistol that covered the occupants of the room.
“Put up your hands,” he growled. “Put ’em up!”