Between him and the clock a girl was standing—a girl in an apple-green evening frock. She had nut-brown hair and a beautiful neck, and she was inclined to plumpness. Apparently she was watching the pendulum. Soon, however, she moved and looked around her. There was a slight flush on the delicate tan of her cheeks, and she smiled faintly as at some foolish thought. Then, glancing at something in her hand, she shook her head while a tiny frown superseded the smile.
She stepped to the door and turned the handle—and gave a little gasp. Bullard saw her colour go out, saw her shoulder seek the support of the door. In that instant he might have over-awed her, stunned her with alarm, but in the next she straightened up and did an unexpected thing. She drew the key from the locked door and walked deliberately to the writing table. For a moment she seemed to require the support of its ledge, yet steadily enough she passed back to the clock.
There she wheeled about. Up went her right hand holding a little revolver. She spoke softly, not unwaveringly, but quite clearly.
"Whoever you are, I think you had better come out. They will be here immediately. I've rung for them. You can't escape!"
There was no response. Bullard was thinking hard. Ought he to overpower her or risk the long drop from the window?
"I will count three," she said, "and if you don't come out, I will shoot!
One … two … th—"
"Do not forget," said a muffled voice, "that I can shoot also."
"You horrid pig!" she cried. "Take that!" Crack went the revolver—crash went the bulb and shade above the writing-table.
Bullard stepped forth. There was a greyish shade on his face, but his lips smiled stiffly behind the glass mask.
"Stand away from the clock, and be good enough to return the key to the door," he said.