Sybarite had expected to find nobody, added
measurably....
But now, temporarily blinded by that vicious bright blade of flame
stabbing the gloom a hand's breadth from his eyes, and deafened by the
crash of the explosion not two feet from his ear-drums, he quickened
to the circumstances with much of the confusion of a man awakened by a
thunder-clap from evil dreams to realities yet more grim.
Of a sudden he understood that murder had been attempted in his
presence and knowledge: a stark and hideous fact, jarring upon the
semi-humorous indulgence with which hitherto he had been inclined to
regard the unfolding of this night of _outre_ adventure. Twice the man
had shot to kill with that singular weapon of silent deadliness--and
both times had missed his mark by the barest margin....
At once, like a demon of exceptional malignity, a breathless and
overpowering rage possessed P. Sybarite. Without the least hesitation
he stretched forth a hand, snatched the pistol from the grasp of the
woman--who seemed to relinquish it more through surprise than
willingly--threw himself halfway down the stairs, and took a hasty
pot-shot at the man--almost invisible in the darkness as he rounded
the turn of the next flight.
Missing, P. Sybarite flung on recklessly. As he gained the lower
floor, the hall lights flashed up, switched on from the upper landing
by the woman of the house.
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