Leaping flowerbeds and vaulting shrubs they flew over the garden, darted through an opening in the high box hedge and came on to the smooth turf where ancient elms cast mottled shadows in the moonlight. Then from the white shingled house directly ahead came the terrified screams of women, punctuated by the bark of revolver shots.
As they dashed up to the house, a wire screen flew out of a second story window and a slender, boyish figure dove head first out after it. Two or three feet below the window sill the porch roof sloped downward at a slight angle. The diver seemed to land on her hands, crumple up, turn a complete somersault and come swiftly upon her feet again with the ease and precision of an acrobat.
“Look out, Dorothy!” yelled Bill, as a revolver was thrust out of the window.
With the agility of a springbok, she leaped aside, firing from her hip. The bark of the four shots was almost simultaneous. There came a shriek of pain from the window, the automatic rattled to the roof, and the hand that had held it disappeared.
Bill lowered his gun. “Wait here till she’s parked,” he ordered. “Then smash a porch window and go in. I’ll tackle them from above.”
With the butt of his smoking revolver between his teeth, he took a running leap and went up a pillar with an ease and swiftness that demonstrated his seaman’s training. His hands caught the gutter, his body swung up and sideways and springing to his feet he ran along the slanting roof to Dorothy.
“Did he hit you?”
“Missed by a mile!”
“Good—” Bill picked her up. “Come on—”
“But, Bill—I’m in pajamas—”