I had a glimpse of Brutus darting through the passage and making a leap for the stairs. Then there was a crash of glass.
"Begad!" came a hoarse voice. "He's jumped clean through the window!"
And another pistol exploded from the landing above me.
"Five hundred dollars for the man who gets him." I could swear I had heard the voice before. "Damn it! Don't let him go! Out the door, all of you! Out the door, men! Out the door!"
There was a rush of feet through the passage. I had a glimpse of men running past, and then I was half out the window.
"Stop!" someone shouted. I took a hasty glance behind me to find that my Uncle Jason had entered the morning room, his clothing torn and disarranged, the good nature erased from his face, and a gash on his left cheek that still was bleeding.
"Stop!" he shouted again, "or I fire!"
Then I was out on the lawn with the cool air from the river on my face, and running for the stable. I wonder what would have happened if the evening had been less far advanced, or the sky less overcast, or Mademoiselle less adroit than providence had made her. She had bridled the horse and was swinging the saddle on him when I had reached the stable's shadow. I could hear my uncle shouting for assistance as I tightened the girths, but Brutus must have led his men a pretty chase.
I mounted unmolested, as I somehow knew I should, and helped her up behind me. Somehow with that first crash on our front door, I knew that the game had turned. I knew that nothing would stop me. An odd sense of exaltation came over me, and with it a strange desire to laugh. It would be amusing enough when I met my father, but I wondered—I wondered as I clapped my heels into my horse's flanks.
What had my uncle to do in this affair?