A
swearing, groaning mass, a conglomeration of helplessly waving arms and
legs, they rolled downward. Victory! I was about to join Miss Falconer
in the doorway when there came a final flash from the opposite
staircase, and I felt a stinging sensation across my forehead and a
spurt of blood into my eyes.
The pain of the slight wound promptly altered my intentions. Instead
of leaving the gallery, I sprang forward to the balustrade. Whipping my
revolver out at last, I aimed deliberately and fired; whereupon I had
the pleasure of seeing Mr. Schwartzmann rock, struggle, apparently
regain his equilibrium, and then suddenly crumple up and pitch headlong
down the stairs.
Below, Blenheim and his friend were extricating themselves from that
blessed table. I passed through the door and thrust it shut and shot the
bolts. We were safe for the present. I could not see Miss Falconer, nor
did she speak to me; but her hand groped for my arm and rested there,
and I covered it with one of mine.
Then, as we stood contentedly drawing breath, we heard steps mounting
the staircase.
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