Suddenly Hamerton touched the American on the shoulder and held up a warning finger. Overhead was a scuffling sound; then thud, thud, the noise of a heavy person descending the stairs.
Their retreat was cut off. Hamerton crouched behind one of the armchairs, Detroit took refuge under the table, and there they waited, hoping that the newcomer would not notice the depletion of the larder.
The click of the key in the lock and the rasping of the bolts told them that either the occupier of the house had imagined that the door had been accidentally left unsecured, or else that there were nocturnal intruders—and "the cat was out of the bag".
Alas for the first theory! The electric light was switched on, and from his place of concealment Hamerton could see the skirts and big carpet slippers of a portly female.
One glance was sufficient to show the woman that thieves had been at work. Stooping, she peered under the table, and Detroit's eyes met those of one of the fattest women he had ever seen.
Without raising a shout the woman made a dart for a rifle that stood in the corner. This she accomplished with considerable agility considering her bulk.
In one corner of the dresser were several loose cartridges. It was towards these the woman waddled.
"Stop her," hissed Hamerton, springing from his place of concealment. He was in time to grab the keeper's wife and prevent her from obtaining the ammunition, while Detroit grasped the rifle.
Then ensued a long struggle. The woman was powerful and determined, the intruders, loath to harm a female, did their best to wrench the rifle from her without exercising brute force. And the curious part about it was that the woman from first to last never called for help.
Finding he could not gain possession of the weapon, the Sub deftly extracted the bolt and thrust it into his pocket.