Whose ring would it be? It might be the police from station eighteen. It might be the inspector from headquarters. Or the operatives from the private agency. Or the prospective client, Fothergill, whose appointment was for seven thirty. Or… or it might be—
The lawyer shivered again. He felt his way across the room and locked both doors.
He was safe here, at least. But what should he do when the doorbell rang, he questioned himself.
His hand, weak and moist, felt for the telephone again. Damn it, why didn’t the police hurry?
“Police headquarters — emergency! Operator! Operator!” He clattered the hook. As he did so an overwhelming terror crept into his heart.
There was no response to his efforts. The wire was dead.
Chapter II
The Shadow on the Glass
The truth, the full peril of his position, struck to Stewart’s brain like a knife. His assailant — this fiend, murder-bent, who had crept upon him out of the night — had silenced the telephone, cutting him off from all aid. If only the other didn’t guess that help had been summoned already!
Breathless, rigid with fright, Stewart listened. Listened for the slightest sound of an attempt to force entrance to the house. But as before, there was only the sob of the wind and the rattling of the shutter.
The attorney felt a certain desperate courage. From his desk he took a service revolver of forty-five caliber which he kept always loaded in a drawer. He laid it carefully within reach of his hand. The touch of the metal reassured him. He could defend himself successfully here in the study!
And perhaps — just perhaps — Grimes, the chauffeur, had returned early from supper. Stewart pressed a button — three long, urgent rings, then three more. He waited, listening to the snowflakes. But five long minutes passed, and there was no response.
Then, suddenly, its sound so loud in the house that it startled him, the front doorbell pealed.
Stewart held his breath, hesitating, wondering. Was it the police? It couldn’t possibly be the inspector from headquarters — not yet! It might be the officers from station eighteen.
His windows did not afford him a view of the west side of the house, where the driveway was situated. He had not heard the police machine arrive; but the east wind, rattling the blind above, might have prevented his hearing. In order to see the driveway he must leave the study. He must unlock one of the doors—
The bell rang again — a longer ring.
His hands shaking again, Stewart groped for the revolver, picked it up, and moved cautiously forward. It was possible that his assailant had forced entrance to the house so quietly that he hadn’t heard him — but it really wasn’t likely.
Besides — if he had — if he were lurking somewhere within, the doorbell would frighten him away. At all events, Stewart knew that he must ascertain whether the police automobile had come. He mustn’t let the officers return to the station!
Quietly, with the utmost care, he turned the key in the door leading to the dining room. From the dining room, with its half circle of tall windows, he could command a view of the whole driveway, clear down to the entrance on Burton Street.
After all — the dining room, too, was dark.
Opening the door, Stewart slipped noiselessly through.
His first glance was toward the window facing the drive. His heart sank. There was no car there. However, from where he stood he could not see all the way down to the street. Perhaps the police had purposely left their machine outside the grounds. He must make sure.
He tiptoed across the dark room, his left hand extended to avoid striking the table, his right gripping the weapon. His foot struck something hard and heavy, and he exclaimed involuntarily. He had forgotten the pile of new bricks, left there by workmen who were building a fireplace which he had promised his daughter upon her return from Philadelphia.
The entire snow-swept driveway came into view — then the lamps of Burton Street below. There was no machine in sight.
Something on the wall of the dining room, at his left, caught Stewart’s glance. He turned to look at it. And at that instant his whole body stiffened, his throat contracted as if in he grip of icy hands.
On the wall were three rectangular patches of light — dim light, which came through the northwest windows from a powerful arc-lamp at the intersection of Burton Street and the Arborway. Distinct in one of these patches was the dark, moving figure of a man.
Stewart dared not even turn his head to look at the other. Unwittingly he had walked into a position which might prove his death-trap. The shadow on the wall told him plainly what the man was doing. He was trying to force the window. Stewart heard plainly the creak of the wood as it strained against the heavy fastening.
In desperation the lawyer did the only thing that he could do. He flung himself to a crouching position in the shadow of the dining room table.
The doorbell pealed once more.
Stewart knew now that it was not the police who sought admittance. Surely this man would have heard their arrival, and would have fled. Surely the person at the front door could be only his accomplice, seeking to lure their intended victim out to his death!
Then all at once Stewart remembered the revolver in his hand.
A shot, aimed while the other was still working at the window, would be likely to bring help. And, if it was aimed well enough, it might rid him of this menace forever.
Carefully he looked at the man outside. His features were indistinct. But his form was familiar — terribly familiar. Only a few feet separated Stewart from his enemy — a few feet, and a pane of heavy glass.
He raised his weapon, then hesitated again. He was a miserable marksman. He well knew that he was. Even at this distance, he might miss—
And suppose that the other, guided by the flash of the gun, should return the fire? Stewart shivered as he recalled the man’s swift, deadly skill.
Was he to be trapped, slain, here in his own house in the city, with hundreds of police who would willingly rush to his aid?
He crouched back farther behind the table. Keeping his head and shoulders well out of range from the window, he extended the revolver at arm’s length, and aimed it, sidewise, at the figure outside the glass.
His hand wavered, and he strove to steady it. He pressed the trigger.
There was only a click from the weapon.
A wave of total horror and helplessness rushed over Stewart. He would have cried out in amazement and fear if his throat hadn’t been powerless. A spasm of trembling shook his body. Had that blundering Johnson unloaded the revolver, after all, when he had told him a hundred times never to touch it?
The window-sash creaked sharply and ominously as the man outside worked on.
Desperately Stewart pulled the trigger again, then again.
Chapter III
What the Police Found
Sergeant White and two officers from station eighteen were on their way to Stewart’s home in a police car.
The sergeant was a man who weighed two hundred, and who had florid features and a heavy, drawling voice. He was a rather astute policeman, as honest as the average, and remarkably fearless and cool in times of danger. His companions, Blake and Forrest, were young policemen.
As the intersection of Burton Street and the Arborway loomed through the blinding storm, Sergeant White barked an order, and Blake shut off his motor, parking the little car near the corner, in the darkness of the latter thoroughfare. The three men stumbled out.