Chapter XV
THE SHOOTING FLAME
“And that’s that,” said Bill, still keeping his voice to a whisper. “Disgusting old beast! Let’s turn off the lights in here and try the window. Anything is better than lying here.”
“Wait a minute—I’ve an idea!” Sanborn pointed to the fireplace. Bill nodded and together they wriggled across the rugs.
The chimney, with its grate of glowing coals, was an old-fashioned structure. Although probably no older than this modern residence, it appeared to be a worthy monument of another generation. Wide at the base, it tapered toward the top, and on its inner walls a number of iron staples, rusty and covered with soot, led upward.
Sanborn stepped within the chimney and grasped the first staple. “Phew!” he gasped, jerking his hand away, “—hot!”
“And probably insecure.” Bill was beside him now. They were out of the line of fire from the door and windows. “I’ll tell you what—that ladder! Wait—” He picked up a small shovel from the hearth. “I’ll get these live coals into the scuttle. That should cool the chimney some.”
Sanborn helped with a tongs, and the coals were quickly transferred. Bill found a wall switch and turned off the light. Together they went to the window by which Bill had entered, and cautiously lifting the shade a couple of inches, they peered through the glass. Three men, revolvers in hand, were approaching the ladder across a flower bed.
“Get ’em in the legs,” whispered Sanborn.
Two shots rang out like one, and two of the attackers dropped in their tracks. The third, evidently deciding that distance lent enchantment, streaked for the shadow of the trees without returning their fire. They let him go.
Bill raised the window and they seized the topmost rung of the ladder and started to haul it into the library. It was half-way through the window when there came a flash from the corner of the house. The glass door of a bookcase was shattered, but neither Bill nor the detective paid any attention to it. A second more and the ladder was inside.