Going to the window, she pulled up the sash, for the room was stuffy and airless. She found herself looking out from the back of the house, across the lawn to a belt of trees which she could just discern. The road ran parallel with the front of the house, and the shrillest scream would not be heard by anybody on the road.
Sitting down in one of the chairs, she considered her position. Having overcome her fear, she had that in her possession which would overcome Gregory if it came to a fight. Pulling up her skirt, she unbuckled the soft leather belt about her waist, and from the Russian leather holster it supported, she took a diminutive Browning—a toy of a weapon but wholly business-like in action. Sliding back the jacket, she threw a cartridge into the chamber and pulled up the safety-catch; then she examined the magazine and pressed it back again.
“Now, Gregory,” she said aloud, and at that moment her face went round to the window, and she started up with a scream.
Two grimy hands gripped the bars; glaring in at her was the horrible face of a tramp. Her trembling hand shot out for the pistol, but before it could close on the butt, the face had disappeared; and though she went round to the window and looked out, the bars prevented her from getting a clear view of the parapet along which the uncouth figure was creeping.
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE TRAP THAT FAILED
Ten o’clock was striking from Chichester cathedral when the tramp, who half an hour ago had been peering and prying into the secrets of Griff Towers, made his appearance in the market-place. His clothes were even more dusty and soiled, and a policeman who saw him stood squarely in his path.
“On the road?” he asked.
“Yes,” whined the man.
“You can get out of Chichester as quick as you like,” said the officer. “Are you looking for a bed?”
“Yes, sir.”