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 manoeuvre 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.
The burglar snapped at him like a dog. "To hell with your chauffeur!" he cried. "Your chauffeur has run away. You'll drive that car yourself, or I'll leave you here with the top of your head off."
The face of the young man suddenly flashed with pleasure. His eyes, looking past the burglar to the door, lit with relief.
"There's the chauffeur now!" he cried.