"Thank heaven!" said Sam.
He was not comfortable, but comfort just then was not his primary need.
Smith, the bulldog, well satisfied with the way things had happened, sat down, wheezing slightly, to await developments.
4
He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the hall had filled up nicely. There was Mr. Mortimer in his shirt-sleeves, Mr. Bennett in his pyjamas and a dressing-gown, Mrs. Hignett in a travelling costume, Jane Hubbard with her elephant-gun, and Billie in a dinner dress. Smith welcomed them all impartially.
Somebody lit a lamp, and Mrs. Hignett stared speechlessly at the mob.
"Mr. Bennett! Mr. Mortimer!"
"Mrs. Hignett! What are you doing here?"
Mrs. Hignett drew herself up stiffly.
"What an odd question, Mr. Mortimer! I am in my own house!"
"But you rented it to me for the summer. At least, your son did."
"Eustace let you Windles for the summer!" said Mrs. Hignett, incredulously.
Jane Hubbard returned from the drawing-room, where she had been switching off the orchestrion.
"Let us talk all that over cosily to-morrow," she said. "The point now is that there are burglars in the house."
"Burglars!" cried Mr. Bennett aghast. "I thought it was you playing that infernal instrument, Mortimer."
"What on earth should I play it for at this time of night?" said Mr. Mortimer irritably.
It appeared only too evident that the two old friends were again on the verge of one of their distressing fallings-out: but Jane Hubbard intervened once more. This practical-minded girl disliked the introducing of side-issues into the conversation. She was there to talk about burglars, and she intended to do so.
"For goodness sake stop it!" she said, almost petulantly for one usually so superior to emotion. "There'll be lots of time for quarrelling to-morrow. Just now we've got to catch these...."
"I'm not quarrelling," said Mr. Bennett.
"Yes, you are," said Mr. Mortimer.
"I'm not!"
"You are!"
"Don't argue!"
"I'm not arguing!"
"You are!"
"I'm not!"
Jane Hubbard had practically every noble quality which a woman can possess with the exception of patience. A patient woman would have stood by, shrinking from interrupting the dialogue. Jane Hubbard's robuster course was to raise the elephant-gun, point it at the front door, and pull the trigger.
"I thought that would stop you," she said complacently, as the echoes died away and Mr. Bennett had finished leaping into the air. She inserted a fresh cartridge, and sloped arms. "Now, the question is...."