"I did, ma'am.I did.And I sure beg your pardon.It was just plain bluff.My real name is Hughie Luke.And if you'll give me the address of that stock farm of yours, and the railroad fare, I head for it first thing in the morning."Throughout the conversation she had never relaxed her attempts on the bell.She had pressed it in every alarming way--three shorts and a long, two and a long, and five.She had tried long series of shorts, and, once, she had held the button down for a solid three minutes.And she had been divided between objurgation of the stupid, heavy-sleeping butler and doubt if the bell were in order.
"I am so glad," she said; "so glad that you are willing.There won't be much to arrange.But you will first have to trust me while I go upstairs for my purse."She saw the doubt flicker momentarily in his eyes, and added hastily, "But you see I am trusting you with the three hundred dollars.""I believe you, ma'am," he came back gallantly."Though I just can't help this nervousness.""Shall I go and get it?"
But before she could receive consent, a slight muffled jar from the distance came to her ear.She knew it for the swing-door of the butler's pantry.But so slight was it--more a faint vibration than a sound--that she would not have heard had not her ears been keyed and listening for it.Yet the man had heard.He was startled in his composed way.
"What was that?" he demanded.
For answer, her left hand flashed out to the revolver and brought it back.She had had the start of him, and she needed it, for the next instant his hand leaped up from his side, clutching emptiness where the revolver had been.
"Sit down!" she commanded sharply, in a voice new to him.
"Don't move.Keep your hands on the table."She had taken a lesson from him.Instead of holding the heavy weapon extended, the butt of it and her forearm rested on the table, the muzzle pointed, not at his head, but his chest.And he, looking coolly and obeying her commands, knew there was no chance of the kick-up of the recoil producing a miss.Also, he saw that the revolver did not wabble, nor the hand shake, and he was thoroughly conversant with the size of hole the soft-nosed bullets could make.He had eyes, not for her, but for the hammer, which had risen under the pressure of her forefinger on the trigger.
"I reckon I'd best warn you that that there trigger-pull is filed dreadful fine.Don't press too hard, or I'll have a hole in me the size of a walnut."She slacked the hammer partly down.
"That's better," he commented."You'd best put it down all the way.You see how easy it works.If you want to, a quick light pull will jiffy her up and back and make a pretty mess all over your nice floor."A door opened behind him, and he heard somebody enter the room.
But he did not turn his bead.He was looking at her, and he found it the face of another woman--hard, cold, pitiless yet brilliant in its beauty.The eyes, too, were hard, though blazing with a cold light.
"Thomas," she commanded, "go to the telephone and call the police.Why were you so long in answering?""I came as soon as I heard the bell, madam," was the answer.
The robber never took his eyes from hers, nor did she from his, but at mention of the bell she noticed that his eyes were puzzled for the moment.
"Beg your pardon," said the butler from behind, "but wouldn't it be better for me to get a weapon and arouse the servants?""No; ring for the police.I can hold this man.Go and do it--quickly."The butler slippered out of the room, and the man and the woman sat on, gazing into each other's eyes.To her it was an experience keen with enjoyment, and in her mind was the gossip of her crowd, and she saw notes in the society weeklies of the beautiful young Mrs.Setliffe capturing an armed robber single-handed.It would create a sensation, she was sure.