CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SILENT SHOT
That faithful servitor of Fleet Street, the Law Courts clock, had just finished striking seven. It boomed out the hour, stroke by stroke, solemnly, inexorably, like a grim old judge summing up and driving home, point by point, an irrefutable charge. The heavy strokes broke in upon the fitful doze into which Robin Greve, stretched out in an armchair in his living-room, had dropped.
He roused up with a start. There was the click of a key in the lock of his front door. Bruce Wright burst into the room.
The boy shut the door quickly and locked it. He was rather pale and seemed perturbed. On seeing Robin he jerked his head in the direction of the courtyard.
“I suppose you know they’re still outside?” he said.
Robin nodded nonchalantly.
“There are three of them now,” the boy went on. “Robin, I don’t like it. Something’s going to happen. You’ll want to mind yourself ... if it’s not too late already!”
He stepped across to the window and bending down, peered cautiously round the curtain.
Robin Greve laughed.
“Bah!” he said, “they can’t touch me!”