“Our luck——” I began, when, crack! a bullet whistled between us and went through the partition wall with a sharp plug.
“Whew! That was handy!” Strode laughed, as by a common impulse we dropped on our hands and knees below the line of fire. “Look to the passage,” he whispered; “don’t let them cut us off.”
I crept to the door and sent a couple of haphazard shots out into the night. Strode crawled to the window and fired. Then, detecting no sign of the enemy, it occurred to me that I ought to keep an eye on the floor above. Scarcely had the thought passed through my mind when I heard a cry, the door of the upstairs room flung open, and Asta calling me. I rushed up, meeting her on the stairs, and on into the room.
“They are climbing to the window,” she said, as I passed.
The room was empty. I ran to the window and looked out. No one was to be seen; it was now pitch dark again. In the pauses of the wind I fancied I could hear a movement in the shrubs between the house and the road. I did not hesitate to send a shot in that direction. As the report died away, a laugh followed and a voice called out with startling unexpectedness.
“Well aimed, Herr Engländer!”
It was Furello. I made no reply, but waited. Then out of the darkness came the vile voice again.
“Herr Tyrrell! Herr Tyrrell!” it cried.
“Good-evening, Count!” I replied mockingly.
“Good-night, Herr Tyrrell,” he returned. “My compliments. You are a clever fellow, for an Englishman. But you will need to be much cleverer when next we meet. So look to yourself and make the most of the few hours of life we leave you. Auf Wiedersehen!”