Then, just as she wavered on the edge of fainting from the nervous strain she had undergone, the whole scene changed. There was a crash of glass, and a voice which seemed faintly familiar ordered sharply:
“Hands up!”
A scuffle, two shots, a cry of pain, and the fall of a heavy body to the floor; more sounds of rapid movement in the room; a voice shouting directions; another shot, outside the house—all these impinged on her consciousness without her grasping exactly what had happened. With a last effort of will she wrenched herself round on the bed, so that she could see the room.
Sir Clinton, pistol in hand, was stooping over the third man, who lay groaning on the floor. At the open window she could see Wendover climbing into the room; and, as he jumped down, Inspector Armadale dashed in through the open door. Rescue had come just too late; and, as she realised this, her power of resistance gave out, and she fainted.
Sir Clinton made a gesture to Wendover, putting him in charge of the unconscious girl, while he himself turned back to his captive.
“I've smashed your shoulder with that shot, I think, Billingford,” he commented. “You're safe enough, my man, now that I've taken your gun away from you. You'll stay where you are until my constables come for you. Mr. Wendover will keep an eye on you—and he'll shoot you without the slightest compunction, I'm sure, if you give trouble.”
Billingford seemed engrossed in more immediate afflictions.
“Oh! It hurts damnably!” he muttered.
“Glad to hear it,” Sir Clinton declared unsympathetically. “It'll keep you quiet. Well, inspector?”
Armadale held up a bleeding hand.