Then I dropped and ran for the house—shouting, though all but winded—“Hilton! Hilton! Open the door!”
Sinking exhausted on the steps, I looked toward the gates—but they showed only dimly in the dense shadows of the trees.
Bzzz! Buzz!
I dropped flat in the portico as something struck the metal knob of the door and rebounded over me. A shower of gravel told of another misdirected projectile.
Crack! Crack! Crack! The revolver spoke its short reply into the mysterious darkness; but the night gave up no sound to tell of a shot gone home.
“Hilton! Hilton!” I cried, banging on the panels with the butt of the weapon. “Open the door! Open the door!”
And now I heard the coming footsteps along the hall within; heavy bolts were withdrawn—the door swung open—and Hilton, pale-faced, appeared. His hand shot out, grabbed my coat collar; and weak, exhausted, I found myself snatched into safety, and the door rebolted.
“Thank God!” I whispered. “Thank God! Hilton, look to all your bolts and fastenings. Hell is outside!”
CHAPTER XXXIII
HOW WE WERE REINFORCED
Hilton, I learned, was living the simple life at “Uplands.” The place was not yet decorated and was only partly furnished. But with his man, Soar, he had been in solitary occupation for a week.