“I’m sure I did not lock this door,” she said, and found the pass-key in her bag. The door was bolted on the inside!
“Wait here whilst I dress,” she said.
The eyes of Julius Superbus bulged. Excitement toned his complexion from petunia to old gold. He was not nervous; he was not frightened. Danger made him go pale. Mark Antony was that way.
She was down again in an incredibly short space of time, took the revolver belt from the hall cupboard and fixed it about her waist. Mr. Superbus saw the gun in her hand and felt more comfortable.
“Open the door, please.”
There was a faint rustle of movement on the other side of the door. A not so faint click as if lights were being extinguished.
“Guard the back of the house,” she said in a low voice. “He will probably escape over the wall. Take no risks—strike him down at once. He may be armed!”
Mr. Superbus did not move. He was rooted to the spot, as they say.
“What about getting a policeman?” he asked hollowly.
She shook her head.