"Mrs. Brassbound, Mrs. Brassbound," cried Flora. "There's not a moment to lose."
"Terrible bad she is, and cryin' out for 'ee, m'am."
In the midst of this confusion appeared a veiled and cloaked figure, apparently belonging to Mrs. Barraclough, who nervously flapped hands and hastened, surrounded by a babbling mob of servitors, toward the nearest window.
It did not occur to Barraclough's enemies to offer any resistance to this general exodus, their attention was absorbed by the bedroom door, which had shut with a snap and the click of a key. They waited just long enough for the party of cackling females to get out of the room and down the path, then rushed at the door with foot and shoulder. It stood up longer than might have been expected, but Bolt's weight was more than ordinary woodwork could withstand. The lock burst—the headings split and it fell inward with a crash.
Standing by the window, waving a knotted handkerchief to a disappearing car was Mrs. Barraclough. She scarcely wasted a glance upon the intruders.
"Damnation—done!" roared Harrison Smith, as the truth dawned upon him.
In a solid block they swung round to find themselves staring down the black barrel of a service revolver held dead rigid in the hands of Jane.
"Hands above your heads, please," she insisted.
"And if you'll first wait till dear Anthony turns the bend of the lane," cooed Mrs. Barraclough, "I'll go through their pockets and take away any nasty things I may find there. You put the roses in the car, Jane?"
"He's got it all right," came the answer.