"Hands up!" he snapped. "Drop that gun!"
The answer was a singular sound—half a choking cough, half a smothered bark—accompanied by a jet of fire from the strange weapon, and coincident with the tinkling of a splintered electric bulb.
Instantly the hall was again drenched in darkness but little mitigated by the light from the bedroom.
Heedless of consequences, in his excitement, P. Sybarite pulled trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, rose and fell half a dozen times without educing any response other than the click of metal against metal: demonstrating beyond question that the revolver was unloaded.
From the hand of the marauder another tongue of flame licked out, to the sound of the same dull, bronchial cough; and a bullet thumped heavily into the wall beside P. Sybarite.
Enraged beyond measure, he drew back his worthless weapon and threw it with all his might. And Kismet winged the missile to the firing arm of the assassin. With a cry of pain and anger, this last involuntarily relaxed his grasp and, dropping his own pistol, stumbled and half fell, half threw himself down to the next floor.
As this happened, a white arm was levelled over the shoulder of P. Sybarite.
The woman took deliberate aim, fired—and missed.
THE LADY OF THE HOUSE