He was staring towards the window. Outside on the veranda, crouching on all fours in the dusk, was a dark figure. With a strange, sudden movement it raised itself and stretched out an arm towards the room—standing lank, tall, and horribly sinister.
Without a moment's hesitation Eustace raised his hand and fired. There was a splintering of glass, a wild howl of pain, and the figure dropped like a stone.
"Eustace," cried Mrs. Orban in a horrified voice, "what have you done?"
"I had to fire first," returned the boy in an odd, sullen tone.
The figure outside moved, and with a succession of dreadful yells began rapidly crawling along the veranda towards the stairs.
At the bedroom door appeared the entire household, Robertson leading the way, his usually ruddy face ghastly with astonishment.
"What on earth is happening?" he asked, staring at Eustace and his mother.
"I've shot something," Eustace faltered. "It is going down the steps—"
Robertson waited to hear no more. Seizing the boy's revolver, he took a short cut through the house for the veranda steps.
"What was it?" asked the frightened women, as they huddled together in the doorway.