Sybarite went on.
Without misadventure he gained the main wall of the house, and there
found open windows and (upon further cautious investigation) a
doorway, likewise wide to the bland night air. Hesitant on the
threshold of this last he sought with impotent senses to probe
impenetrable obscurity--listening, every nerve taut and vibrant, for
some sound significant of human tenancy, and detecting never an one.
In spite of this, it was without the least confidence that presently
he plucked up heart to proceed....
Three steps on into darkness, and his knee found a chair that might
have poised itself on one leg, in malicious ambush, so promptly did it
go over--and with what a racket.
Incontinently something rustled quite near at hand; followed a
click--blinding light--a shrill, excited voice:
"Hands up!"
With a jerk, up went his hands high above his head. Blinking furiously
in the glare, he comprehended his plight.
The lights he found so dazzling blazed from sconces round the walls of
a bedroom more handsome than any he had thought ever to see--unless
perhaps upon a stage. The voice belonged to a young woman sitting up
in bed and coolly covering him with the yawning muzzle of a peculiarly
poisonous-looking automatic pistol.
It was astonishingly evident that she wasn't at all frightened. The
arm that levelled the weapon (a round and shapely arm, bare to the
shoulder) was admirably steady; the rich colouring of her distinctly
handsome face showed not a trace of pallor; and the fire that
flickered in her large and darkly beautiful eyes was of indignation
rather than of fear.
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