“The burglar-alarm, sir,” he said, with as little excitement as he might have announced the readiness of dinner. “The indicator points to Mr. Denby’s room.”
“Good old Lambart,” his employer said heartily. “You go ahead, and we’ll follow. No, you keep the beastly thing,” he exclaimed, when the butler handed him the weapon. “You’re a better shot than I am, Lambart.”
“Mikey,” Alice called to him, “if you’re going to be killed, I want to be killed, too.”
The Harringtons followed the admirable Lambart up the stairway, while Nora gazed after them with a species of fascinated curiosity that was not compounded wholly of fear. Intensely alive to the vivid interest of these swiftly moving scenes through which she was passing, Nora—although she could scream with the best of them—was not in reality badly scared.
“I don’t want to be killed,” she announced with decision.
Monty moved to her side. He had an idea that if he must die or be arrested, he would like Nora to live on, cherishing the memory that he was a man.
“Neither do I!” he cried. “I wish I’d never gone into this. I knew when I dreamed about Sing Sing last night that it meant something.”
“Gone into what?” Nora demanded.
“I’m liable to get shot any minute.”
“What!” she cried anxiously.