However, a brief exploration would no doubt reveal the hidden chamber. It might even be that room whose door faced him across the hall. He was turning the handle with the view of testing this theory, when a voice behind him, speaking softly but with a startling abruptness, said, “Hands up!” At the foot of the stairs, her wide mouth set in a determined line, her tow-coloured hair adorned with gleaming curling pins, there was standing a young woman in a pink dressing gown and slippers. In her right hand, pointed at his head, she held a revolver. CHAPTER SEVEN SAM AT SAN RAFAEL It is not given to every girl who makes prophecies to find those prophecies fulfilled within a few short hours of their utterance; and the emotions of Claire Lippett, as she confronted Sam in the hall of San Rafael, were akin to those of one who sees the long shot romp in ahead of the field or who unexpectedly solves the cross-word puzzle. Only that evening she had predicted that burglars would invade the house, and here one was, as large as life. Mixed, therefore, with her disapproval of this midnight marauder, was a feeling almost of gratitude to him for being there. Of fear she felt no trace. She presented the pistol with a firm hand. One calls it a pistol for the sake of technical accuracy. To Sam’s startled senses it appeared like a young cannon, and so deeply did he feel regarding it that he made it the subject of his opening remark--which, by all the laws of etiquette, should have been a graceful apology for and explanation of his intrusion. “Steady with the howitzer!” he urged. “What say?” said Claire coldly. “The lethal weapon--be careful with it. It’s pointing at me.” “I know it’s pointing at you.” “Oh, well, so long as it only points,” said Sam. He felt a good deal reassured by the level firmness of her tone. This was plainly not one of those neurotic, fluttering females whose fingers cannot safely be permitted within a foot of a pistol trigger. There was a pause. Claire, still keeping the weapon poised, turned the gas up. Upon which, Sam, rightly feeling that the ball of conversation should be set rolling by himself, spoke again. “You are doubtless surprised,” he said, plagiarising the literary style of Mr. Todhunter, “to see me here.” “No, I’m not.” “You’re not?” “No. You keep those hands of yours up.” Sam sighed. “You wouldn’t speak to me in that harsh tone,” he said, “if you knew all I had been through. It is not too much to say that I have been persecuted this night.” “Well, you shouldn’t come breaking into people’s houses,” said Claire primly. “You are labouring under a natural error,” said Sam. “I did not break into this charming little house. My presence, Mrs. Braddock, strange as it may seem, is easily explained.” “Who are you calling Mrs. Braddock?” “Aren’t you Mrs. Braddock?” “No.” “You aren’t married to Mr. Braddock?” “No, I’m not.” Sam was a broad-minded young man.