The ex-captain of territorials sprang from his bed, thrust his feet into slippers, threw a bathrobe over his pajamas, opened his door and stepped out into the hall. Some one had already turned on a light. He found himself amongst a group of fellow guests, whose number was being constantly augmented. From other doorways, wary of their extreme dishabille, women's faces peered out timidly—their voices, less restrained, demanding to know what was the matter, added an hysterical note to the scene.
"A shot was certainly fired somewhere in the house, though I couldn't place where it came from," declared some one. "I am quite sure of it."
"There is no question about it," corroborated another. "It woke me up, and I ran out here into the hall."
"The Earl is not in his room!" announced a third excitedly. "I've just been there."
"Ring for the servants!" screeched an elderly female voice. "Some one may be killed!"
"For God's sake!" snapped a man gruffly. "I didn't hear it myself, but if a shot was fired it's fairly obvious by now that it wasn't fired up here! What are you standing around like a pack of sheep for?"
"That's what I was wondering," said Captain Francis Newcombe softly to himself—and joined the now concerted rush down the stairway.
Lights were going on all over the house now, and the men servants began to appear. The rush scurried from one room to another. A cry went up from some one ahead. It turned the rush into the dining room, and there, in their motley garbs, chorusing excited exclamations, the crowd surrounded the two gagged and bound guards.
Then some one else shouted from the pantry that the metal chest had been broken open, and that the gold service was gone. There was another rush in that direction. Captain Francis Newcombe accompanied this rush. On the floor lay a revolver. The ex-captain of territorials picked it up.
"Hello!" he ejaculated. "It's rather queer this has been left behind—or perhaps it belongs to one of the two out there in the dining room."