"I don't know," Eustace said, "unless some one was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and tried to shoot me without raising his hand. The shot sounded most awfully close."
Robertson took a quick survey of the situation, ending with an examination of the wall at the head of the bed.
"No," he said, "that couldn't be. The bullet would have gone into the pillow or lodged in the wall, but there isn't a sign of it. Seems to me it went the other way by the mark. It is broadest in the middle of the bed."
He followed the line with his eye, then glanced across the room.
"Why," he exclaimed, going over to the opposite wall, "here is the mark of the bullet—here is the bullet itself, deep in the wood. That shot went off from the middle of your bed, lad."
Eustace looked incredulous, Mrs. Orban horrified. It was awful to think that the boy had been in such danger. The man who had fired that first alarming shot was close to him, perhaps bending over him, when inadvertently the weapon had gone off! The mother could picture it only too vividly, and she felt sick at the thought of the ghastly peril.
"But what happened to the man?" questioned Eustace. "I was awake in a minute, and must have seen him."
"Not if he ducked under the bed," suggested Mrs. Orban. "He must have been there when you came to me, and made his escape the instant you were out of the way."
"Much more likely if he had knocked the youngster on the head to silence him," argued Robertson, as he stood toying with Mr. Orban's revolver. "I don't think that story will wash."
Quite suddenly the man threw back his head and laughed aloud.