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There was the swift patter of retreating footsteps, and then a sudden halt, and they heard the watchman command: “Go back, and keep the other two till I come.”

The next instant from the outside the door was softly closed upon them.

It had no more than shut when to the surprise of Miss Forbes the young man, with a delighted and vindictive chuckle, sprang to the desk and began to drum upon it with his fingers. It were as though he were practising upon a typewriter.

“He missed THESE,” he muttered jubilantly. The girl leaned forward. Beneath his fingers she saw, flush with the table, a roll of little ivory buttons. She read the words “Stables,” “Servants’ hall.” She raised a pair of very beautiful and very bewildered eyes.

“But if he wanted the servants, why didn’t the watchman do that?” she asked.

“Because he isn’t a watchman,” answered the young man. “Because he’s robbing this house.”

He took the revolver from his encumbering greatcoat, slipped it in his pocket, and threw the coat from him. He motioned the girl into a corner. “Keep out of the line of the door,” he ordered.

“I don’t understand,” begged the girl.

“They came in a car,” whispered the young man. “It’s broken down, and they can’t get away. When the big fellow stopped us and I flashed my torch, I saw their car behind him in the road with the front off and the lights out. He’d seen the lamps of our car, and now they want it to escape in. That’s why he brought us here–to keep us away from our car.”

“And Fred!” gasped the girl. “Fred’s hurt!”

“I guess Fred stumbled into the big fellow,” assented the young man, “and the big fellow put him out; then he saw Fred was a chauffeur, and now they are trying to bring him to, so that he can run the car for them. You needn’t worry about Fred. He’s been in four smash-ups.”

The young man bent forward to listen, but from no part of the great house came any sign. He exclaimed angrily.

“They must be drugged,” he growled. He ran to the desk and made vicious jabs at the ivory buttons.

“Suppose they’re out of order!” he whispered.

There was the sound of leaping feet. The young man laughed nervously.

“No, it’s all right,” he cried. “They’re coming!”

The door flung open and the big burglar and a small, rat-like figure of a man burst upon them; the big one pointing a revolver.

“Come with me to your car!” he commanded. “You’ve got to take us to Boston. Quick, or I’ll blow your face off.”

Although the young man glared bravely at the steel barrel and the lifted trigger, poised a few inches from his eyes, his body, as though weak with fright, shifted slightly and his feet made a shuffling noise upon the floor. When the weight of his body was balanced on the ball of his right foot, the shuffling ceased. Had the burglar lowered his eyes, the manoeuvre to him would have been significant, but his eyes were following the barrel of the revolver.

In the mind of the young man the one thought uppermost was that he must gain time, but, with a revolver in his face, he found his desire to gain time swiftly diminishing. Still, when he spoke, it was with deliberation.

“My chauffeur–” he began slowly.

The burglar snapped at him like a dog. “To hell with your chauffeur!” he cried. “Your chauffeur has run away. You’ll drive that car yourself, or I’ll leave you here with the top of your head off.”

The face of the young man suddenly flashed with pleasure. His eyes, looking past the burglar to the door, lit with relief.

“There’s the chauffeur now!” he cried.

The big burglar for one instant glanced over his right shoulder.