“I don’t want the police here. Do as I tell you, please.”
Mr. Superbus tried to lift a foot and winced; his rheumatism had “come on” again.
“I won’t leave you here by yourself,” he said unsteadily; “it would be cowardly, leaving a lady by herself.”
From the hall there was one entrance to The Study. You might reach it, however, through the small ante-room which Gordon used as a book store. He refused to dignify the place with the description of “library.”
“Stay here,” she whispered, and sped along the dark passage.
The door was unlocked, the smell of books came to her in the darkness, and she stepped stealthily into the room, pistol in hand.
The second door into The Study opened. The big room was in darkness except for the faint light of the painted window.
“Hands up!” she called. “I see you!”
The light control was at the other end of the room—she felt cautiously forward. She had taken a few steps when the door into the hall jerked open and a figure darted through, slamming the door....
Superbus would have him, she thought exultantly as she ran in pursuit. But there was no sound of struggle, and when she flew into the hall it was empty.