But Neeland had neither time nor inclination to prowl around and
investigate; he had a duty to fulfil, a train to catch, and a steamer
to connect with the next morning. Besides, he was getting madder every
second.
So he fitted his key to the door, careless of what noise he made,
unlocked and pushed it open, and started to cross the threshold.
Instantly the light in the adjoining room grew dim. At the same moment
his quick ear caught a sound as though somebody had blown out the
turned-down flame; and he found himself facing total darkness.
"Who the devil's in there!" he called, flashing his electric pocket
lamp. "Come out, whoever you are. You've no business in this house,
and you know it!" And he entered the silent room.
His flash light revealed nothing except dining-room furniture in
disorder, the doors of a cupboard standing open--one door still gently
swinging on its hinges.
The invisible hand that had moved it could not be far away. Neeland,
throwing his light right and left, caught a glimpse of another door
closing stealthily, ran forward and jerked it open. His lamp
illuminated an empty passageway; he hurried through it to the door
that closed the farther end, tore it open, and deluged the
sitting-room with his blinding light.
Full in the glare, her face as white as the light itself, stood a
woman. And just in time his eyes caught the glitter of a weapon in her
stiffly extended hand; and he snapped off his light and ducked as the
level pistol-flame darted through the darkness.
The next second he had her in his grasp; held her writhing and
twisting; and, through the confused trample and heavy breathing, he
noticed a curious crackling noise as though the clothing she wore were
made of paper.
The struggle in pitch darkness was violent but brief; she managed to
fire again as he caught her right arm and felt along it until he
touched the desperately clenched pistol. Then, still clutching her
closed fingers, he pulled the flash light from his side pocket and
threw its full radiance straight into her face.
"Let go your pistol," he breathed.
She strove doggedly to retain it, but her slender fingers slowly
relaxed under his merciless grip; the pistol fell; and he kicked the
pearl-handled, nickel-plated weapon across the dusty board floor.
They both were panting; her right arm, rigid, still remained in his
powerful clutch. He released it presently, stepped back, and played
the light over her from head to foot.
She was deathly white. Under her smart straw hat, which had been
pushed awry, the contrast between her black hair and eyes and her
chalky skin was startling.
"What are you doing in this house?" he demanded, still breathing
heavily from exertion and excitement.