Some one below saw his face at the window and swore shriekingly to have his life. Blake drew quickly back and stood again beside his desk. He was white—living flesh could not be more white—but he still maintained that calm control which had succeeded his first desperate consternation.
“What are you going to do?” Katherine asked.
He very quietly drew out a drawer of his desk and picked up a pistol.
“What!” she cried. “You are not going to fight them off!”
“No. I have injured enough of them already,” he replied in his measured tone. “Keep all this from my mother as long as you can—at least till she is stronger.”
As she saw his intention Katherine sprang forward and caught the weapon he was turning upon himself.
“No! No! You must not do that!”
“But I must,” he returned quietly. “Listen!”
The cries without had grown more violent. The heavy front door was resounding with blows.