“Not so fast,” he added sternly; “answer my question.”
The man stared, an angry scowl on his face.
“He is not here,” he snarled.
“I asked you if he lived here,” O’Neil corrected, wedging the door further open with the powerful force of his body, “not if he was here.”
The sound of whispering from behind the door caused his hand to go quickly to his revolver holster. The door suddenly swung open and the sailor found himself inside in inky darkness. The door had closed with a snap behind him.
He held his revolver in his hand, his finger on the trigger, his ears straining to locate an enemy.
He heard a noise behind him and swinging around fired directly toward the sound. The flash of his pistol lit up the dark hall for the fraction of a second, but before he could seek a protecting wall he was struck heavily from behind and his senses left him.
“A shot, did you hear it?” cried Sydney swinging about in the direction of the cluster of buildings. “Why, where’s O’Neil?” he added in alarm, noting that the sailor was nowhere in sight.
With an apprehension of coming evil they walked hastily toward the building from which they had heard the report of fire-arms.
Phil uttered a cry of dismay and ran up the steps of the large house.