As the electric light was switched on, brilliantly illuminating the room, he gripped his revolver and stepped from behind the door.
“Hands up!” he cried in a hoarse whisper. Then he fell back with a short, raucous laugh. He was pointing the revolver at a frightened little mite of a girl shivering before him in her thin, white nightgown. The small, terrified face touched him strangely, and, placing his pistol in his pocket, he said, not unkindly:
“There, little girl, don’t be so scared—I’m not going to hurt you. Just you be real still so as not to disturb the others until I get through and get away, and you shan’t be hurt.”
The child looked at him much as she would an obstacle in her path, and attempted to rush past him. He grabbed her and held her tight.
“You little vixen!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you to keep still?”
“But I’ve got to telephone,” gasped the child, struggling to free herself. “Just let me telephone and then you can do what you like with me—but I can’t wait—I’ve got to telephone right away.” And she made another effort to reach the telephone on the wall.
Again the burglar laughed. “It’s very likely I’ll let you telephone for the police. No, missy, you can’t work that on me. I guess I’ll have to tie and gag you after all.”
Fresh terror found its way into the child’s face, and, for the first time the burglar realized that he was not the cause of it. She was not afraid of him. She fought and scratched him like a young tigress, striving to free herself, and when she realized how powerless she was in his strong arms she burst into tears.
“Oh! My brother is dying,” she cried, “and I want to telephone the doctor. He has convulsions and mamma doesn’t know what to do—and you won’t let me telephone the doctor!”
At the word “convulsions” the burglar went white—his hands fell nervelessly to his sides—the child was free.