The door opened and Jane Hubbard appeared, slipping a fresh cartridge
into the elephant-gun.
"One of them was popping about outside here," she announced. "I took a
shot at him, but I'm afraid I missed. The visibility was bad. At any
rate he went away."
In this last statement she was perfectly accurate. Bream Mortimer, who
had been aroused by the orchestrion and who had come out to see what
was the matter, had gone away at the rate of fifty miles an hour. He
had been creeping down the passage when he found himself suddenly
confronted by a dim figure which, without a word, had attempted to slay
him with an enormous gun. The shot had whistled past his ears and gone
singing down the corridor. This was enough for Bream. He had returned
to his room in three strides, and was now under the bed. The burglars
might take everything in the house and welcome, so that they did not
molest his privacy. That was the way Bream looked at it. And very
sensible of him, too, I consider.
"We'd better go downstairs," said Jane.
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