They were very beautiful eyes, too. They belonged to a young girl, a girl with lovely features and bright golden hair. She was sleeping in one of the rooms on the second floor that fronted on the piazza, and the sound that awakened her had been the gentle tap upon the roof when the ladder had been raised. She sat up in bed, and a moment later arose and crept tremblingly to the window. Peering out into the darkness she saw the top of the ladder, and a moment later saw a masked face appear above it, and a masked figure climb up and creep into the shadow of the building. Another followed it instantly, and another; and then without a sound the girl dodged down and stole across the floor of the room.
She crept silently to a trunk that was in one corner; she raised the lid and fumbled about anxiously in the darkness for something. It felt cold, like polished steel, when she found what she wanted. She picked it up and slipped a wrapper over her shoulders, then softly opened the door of her room to peer out into the hall.
Meanwhile as to the Seven whom we left standing inside of the window down near the other end. They were, as has been said, entirely unconscious of what has just been mentioned. Texas had crept forward and extinguished the light that burned in the hall, and they were now standing in total darkness but for the single ray of the lantern. They held a whispered conversation as to what they should do next.
Parson Stanard volunteered to pick the lock of Chandler’s door; he wasn’t a burglar by profession, by Zeus, said he, but he believed in a gentleman of culture knowing something about all the arts and professions. (This was whispered in all seriousness.) And so the Parson crept up to the door, the lantern in his hand. He knelt down before the lock and fell to examining it cautiously, finally thrusting in a bent piece of wire and getting to work. He said he could get that door open in two minutes.
Meanwhile the others were huddled together waiting anxiously. Indian was leaning against the wall, making it shake with his nervous trembling, and Texas was peering out of the window to make sure that there was no sign of danger there. And then suddenly came the thunderclap.
Nothing could be imagined more terrifying to the amateur burglars than what actually happened in the next half minute. There came first the sound of a creaking door, a sound that made them start back. And an instant later a figure sprang out into the hallway, a figure that they could plainly see in the darkness, for it was white as snow. The figure raised one arm and called in a voice that was clear and unfaltering:
“What are you doing there?”
The plebes stood aghast, trembling. They knew the voice, and that but increased their horror. For it was Grace Fuller, their dearest friend!
They all recognized her but one, and that was Texas; Texas had been leaning out of the window and the voice was not so distinct to him. He wheeled about with the swiftness of a panther, giving vent to a cry of anger as he did so. He flung his hand around to his pocket and whipped out his revolver. Before the others could make a move to stop him he swung it up to his shoulder.
And an instant later there came a blinding flash of light and a loud report that awoke the echoes of the silent building.