“That’s the worst o’ these yere ole Eastern ways,” he muttered. “Ef a feller had bought these yere pants in Texas more’n likely he’d ’a’ found some guns in ’em.”
Texas had but a few moments more to growl however, for Mark stepped forward, suddenly and started up the steps.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s have it over with. He can’t shoot all of us at once.”
Slowly they crept up the stairs, pausing at every step to listen. They reached the top and peering around found a dimly-lit hall without a sign of life about it.
“Perhaps he’s in one o’ them aire rooms,” whispered Texas. “I——”
“S’h!” muttered Mark.
His exclamation was caused by a slight noise on the floor above, a faint tread.
“He’s upon the next floor!” gasped the three. “Shall we——”
They did; Mark led the way and with still more trembling caution they stole on, crouching in the shadow of the banisters, trying to stifle the very beatings of their hearts and breathing fast with excitement.
Up, up. There were twenty-one stairs to that flight; Mark knew that, because they stopped a long while on each listening for another clew to the burglar’s whereabouts, and trembling as they imagined him peering over at them.