Amberley glanced at the clock. "I don't think the inspector would come at this hour unless it were for something particularly vital," he said.
A silence followed the last desultory clang of the bell. Then they heard the front door being opened and a confused murmur of voices, which grew louder.
Fountain raised his brows in a bewildered, slightly amused way. "What in the world . ." he began, and stopped short, listening.
One voice was raised insistently, but they could not distinguish the words. Then came the sound of a scuffle and a desperate cry of "Help!"
Fountain leaped to his feet. "Good God, that's Collins' he exclaimed and hurried to the door.
The cry rang out again. "Help! Help!"
Fountain wrenched the door open and strode out into the hall. The front door was open, and on the doorstep two men were swaying together in a desperate struggle. One was the valet; the other was Mark Brown.
The light in the porch shone on the barrel of a automatic in Mark's hand. Collins was trying to get possession of it; as he went to his assistance Amberley caught a glimpse of his face, livid, the lips drawn back in a kind of snarl, the eyes alive all at once with rage and hatred.
Before either Fountain or Amberley could reach the front door Mark had wrenched free from the valet's desperate grasp. "Damn your soul to hell; you won't, eh?" he shouted. "Then take that!"
There was a deafening report, but Mark lurched as he fired and the bullet went wide. There was a crash and the tinkling of broken glass as it went through a cabinet at the end of the hall and buried itself in the wall behind.