Mrs Mellish, in her nightgown, came running into the room.
"Oh, Auntie! Are you ill? Are you on fire?" she cried.
The stout lady, strengthless and breathless, was lying in a chair, the jewel-case clasped laxly with one arm.
"A robber has been here," she gasped. "A robber, with black on his face, and a chloroformed handkerchief."
"Oh, Auntie! Auntie! Never!"
"Where is your husband? Is he in your room?"
No. For Augustus, ever a restless sleeper, had thought he heard something stirring in the room beneath, and, later, a footstep on the stair. He had risen, therefore, had taken the pistol, which always lay loaded by his side, and gone down to investigate.
Auntie opened her mouth to speak, but closed it without a sound; her eyes, with their most vacant stare, were turned upon her niece; she gathered her underlip loosely beneath her teeth.
It was not until the servants, also aroused by the bell, but having waited to dress, came to Auntie's room, that Mrs Mellish was at liberty to run down to seek her husband.
There was no doubt about the house having been entered, she said, on her return; Auntie had by no means dreamt the burglar.