The silence continued as Palmer, his big form moving quietly down the room, reached one of the front windows and opened it wide. For a short time he stood contemplating the opposite houses, dimly seen in the murky atmosphere, and filled his lungs with the damp air. Hearing his name he faced about.
“Have you disappeared for good, Palmer?” called Burnham. “We must be getting along. I——”
Whatever Burnham intended to say remained unuttered as a stinging sensation caused him to clap his hand to his face. When he removed it his palm showed blood from a graze on his cheek.
“Shot, by God!” he exclaimed, gazing dazedly at his companions.
Palmer moved swiftly from the window and peered over Hayden’s shoulder at a hole in the plaster—the bullet had mushroomed out. Maynard tapped the wall. “Brick,” he said tersely, and his face shone white in the rays of the electric lamp which Palmer held aloft to better inspect the bullet. “I heard no sound.”
“None of us did,” responded Burnham hoarsely. “Whoever fired the shot used a Maxim silencer.”
Hayden moistened his finger and touched the hot metal. “Fortunate you moved your head when you did, Burnham,” he commented dryly. “Where did the shot come from?”
A sudden stronger puff of air rattled the newspapers lying near the open window and the men turned in that direction.
“Jove! the window!” Palmer sped in that direction. “I saw no one on the balcony when I looked out a few minutes ago; then you called, Burnham.”
Maynard, who had hurried with him to the window, leaned far out, and looked up and down the balcony which ran across the front of the apartment.