She fell on her knees beside him, her arms flung round him, her voice in his ear.
"Oh, Fred—no, not that! Is it Charlie? Oh, don't—don't——"
He pushed her back roughly, his eyes straining to catch another glimpse of the creeping figure which had gone out of sight as he raised his revolver ready to fire.
"Oh, no, no! Don't shoot him! Don't, Fred, don't! He——"
Her words ended in a shriek, for even as she spoke there appeared outside the window, showing clear with the moonlight falling full upon it, the face of a yellow-bearded man. Harding wrested himself free from her clinging arms, leapt to the window, and tore the blind away.
The form of the man, running swiftly, was disappearing amongst the bushes.
Heedless of the glass in front of him, of the terrified woman at his knees, Harding raised his revolver and fired.
As the shivered glass crashed to the ground, the report of other shots, fired in rapid succession, came from outside, and across the patch of grass, firing as he ran, Brennan dashed after the runaway.
Harding scrambled through the broken window and ran after him.
From behind the clustering shrubs which formed a screen in front of the chicken-run, there came the sound of horses galloping. Brennan stopped as he heard it. When Harding caught up to him, he was rapidly reloading his revolver.