The stout assassin started back and turned up to the amazing apparition of her a ludicrous mask of astonishment, eyes agoggle, mouth agape, pendulous beard-rusty chin aquiver like some unsavoury sort of jelly. Then slowly--thanks to something convincing in the manner of this young woman, aflame as she was with indignant championship of the under dog--he elevated two grimy hands to a point of conspicuous futility; and a husky whisper; like a stifled roar, rustled past his lips: "Well, can yuh beat it?" A thrill of self-confidence galvanised the person of Miss Manvers, steadying at once her hand and her voice. "Get up!" she snapped. "No--keep your hands in sight. Get up somehow, and be quick about it!" Without visible reluctance, if with some difficulty, like a clumsy automaton animated by unwilling springs, the fat scoundrel lurched awkwardly to his feet and paused. "Very good." She was surprised at the cold, level menace of her tone. "Now stand back--to the wall! Quick!" She was abruptly interrupted by a vast, discordant bellow: "Look out, lady! Look out! That gun might go off!" And as if hoping by that sudden and deafening roar to startle her off guard, the man started toward her, but pulled up as quickly, dashed and sullen. For she did not flinch an inch. "That's your lookout!" she retorted incisively. "If you're afraid of it--stand back and keep your hands up!" With a flicker of a sheepish grin the rogue obeyed, falling back until his shoulders touched the wall and keeping his hands level with his ears. Still holding the pistol ready, the girl shifted her glance to Blue Serge. He had already picked himself up, and now stood surveying his ally with a regard which wavered between amaze and admiration, suspicion and surprise. Meanwhile he felt gingerly of his throat, as if it were still sore, and nervously endeavoured to readjust a collar which had broken from its moorings. Catching her inquiring eye, he bowed jerkily. "Thanks!" he panted. "I--ah--good of you, I'm sure--" She checked him coolly. "Take your time--plenty of it, you know--get your breath and pull yourself together." He laughed uncertainly. "Ah--thanks again. Just a minute. I'm--ah--as dumfounded as grateful, you know." She nodded with a curtness due to disillusionment; the man was palpably frightened; and, whatever his excuse, a timid Raffles was a sorry object in her esteem at that instant. She had anticipated of him--she hardly knew what--something brilliant, bold, and dashing, something as romantic as one has every right to expect of a hero of romantic fiction. But this one stood panting, trembling, "sparring for wind," for all the world like any commonplace person fresh from rough handling!