“Have you found your father?” asked Mrs. Graham, leaning over the baluster and looking into the darkness of the lower hall.
“Not yet, Mrs. Graham,” answered a voice.
“Why don’t you light the gas, Fred?” asked Mrs. Graham, impatiently. There was a scratching of a match, and in an instant the hall was lighted. Just then Phil Graham came from the dining-room.
“I can’t find father,” he said anxiously.
Clara came timidly half-way down the stairs.
“Fred,” she asked, “what sort—who was it you struck?”
“A tall man, standing here. He was waiting for us to come out of the dining-room; but I came up behind and hit him—so,” answered Fred Austin, with some pride.
“Lucky he did, too,” said Phil. “The fellow had this,” he added, holding up a pistol. Then, in a tone of astonishment, he cried, “Hello! it’s father’s old horse-pistol!”
Clara flew down the stairs to her brother, her long hair streaming behind her. “It wasn’t a burglar!” she cried. “It wasn’t a burglar! Why did you strike him?” turning fiercely upon Fred Austin, and then bursting into tears of terror.
Mrs. Graham followed her down. “He wasn’t a burglar,” she explained to the perplexed young men. “It was Dr. Pennington. He came down here to protect us while you were away. He must have heard you and taken you for burglars, and you took him for one, and—”