“I guess Fred stumbled into the big fellow,” assented the young man, “and the big fellow put him out; then he saw Fred was a chauffeur, and now they are trying to bring him to, so that he can run the car for them. You needn’t worry about Fred. He’s been in four smash-ups.”
The young man bent forward to listen, but from no part of the great house came any sign. He exclaimed angrily.
“They must be drugged,” he growled. He ran to the desk and made vicious jabs at the ivory buttons.
“Suppose they’re out of order!” he whispered.
There was the sound of leaping feet. The young man laughed nervously. “No, it’s all right,” he cried. “They’re coming!”
The door flung open and the big burglar and a small, rat-like figure of a man burst upon them; the big one pointing a revolver.
“Come with me to your car!” he commanded. “You’ve got to take us to Boston. Quick, or I’ll blow your face off.”
Although the young man glared bravely at the steel barrel and the lifted trigger, poised a few inches from his eyes, his body, as though weak with fright, shifted slightly and his feet made a shuffling noise upon the floor. When the weight of his body was balanced on the ball of his right foot, the shuffling ceased. Had the burglar lowered his eyes, the manœuvre to him would have been significant, but his eyes were following the barrel of the revolver.
In the mind of the young man the one thought uppermost was that he must gain time, but, with a revolver in his face, he found his desire to gain time swiftly diminishing. Still, when he spoke, it was with deliberation.
“My chauffeur—” he began slowly.