Gentleman Jack waited for the clamour to subside. Then he resumed
his gentle drawl.
"But I'm not done," he explained. "I'm going out now through that
window. And if anybody tries to stop me, it will be his--or
her--" he bowed politely to Miss Trimble--"last act in the world.
If any one makes a move to stop me, I shall drop this test-tube
and blow the whole damned place to pieces."
If his first speech had made a marked impression on his audience,
his second paralysed them. A silence followed as of the tomb.
Only the yapping of the dog Aida refused to be stilled.
"Y' stay where y' are!" said Miss Trimble, as the speaker moved
towards the window. She held the revolver poised, but for the
first time that night--possibly for the first time in her
life--she spoke irresolutely. Superbly competent woman though she
was, here was a situation that baffled her.
Gentleman Jack crossed the room slowly, the test-tube held aloft
between fore-finger and thumb. He was level with Miss Trimble,
who had lowered her revolver and had drawn to one side, plainly at
a loss to know how to handle this unprecedented crisis, when the
door flew open. For an instant the face of Howard Bemis, the
poet, was visible.
"Mrs. Pett, I have telephoned--"
Then another voice interrupted him.
"Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!"
Through the opening the dog Aida, rejoicing in the removal of the
obstacle, raced like a fur muff mysteriously endowed with legs
and a tongue.
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