She did not scream. She stood breathless, dying of terror, she felt. Her heart ceased beating, and she was conscious of a deadly cold. What was it? What could it be? Summoning all her courage, she looked out of the window down into a hideous, bestial face and two round, green eyes that stared into hers.
CHAPTER XI
THE MARK ON THE WINDOW
The Thing was twittering at her, soft, bird-like noises, and she saw the flash of its white teeth in the darkness. It was not pulling, it was simply holding, one hand gripping the tendrils of the ivy up which it had climbed, the other hand firmly about her wrist. Again it twittered and pulled. She drew back, but she might as well have tried to draw back from a moving piston rod. A great, hairy leg was suddenly flung over the sill; the second hand came up and covered her face.
The sound of her scream was deadened in the hairy paw, but somebody heard it. From the ground below came a flash of fire and the deafening ‘tang!’ of a pistol exploding. A bullet zipped and crashed amongst the ivy, striking the brickwork, and she heard the whirr of the ricochet. Instantly the great monkey released his hold and dropped down out of sight. Half swooning, she dropped upon the window-sill, incapable of movement. And then she saw a figure come out of the shadow of the laurel bush, and instantly recognized the midnight prowler. It was Michael Brixan.
“Are you hurt?” he asked in a low voice.
She could only shake her head, for speech was denied her.
“I didn’t hit him, did I?”
With an effort she found a husk of a voice in her dry throat.
“No, I don’t think so. He dropped.”
Michael had pulled an electric torch from his pocket and was searching the ground.