So great was the shock that he cried out a little as he spluttered and blew the water from his mouth. A couple of strokes brought him back to the gate again, and as he clutched it he looked up at the silent house. Even as he did so he caught a little spit of flame from one of the windows and a bullet splashed into the water beside his head. There was another spit of flame, and he felt his knuckles tingle as though they had been rapped with a red-hot iron. Then Mendip gripped him by the collar, and with his aid he scrambled up on to the path. Lowther, who had been quick to see the necessity of instant action, was by this time firing back at the place from which the little spits of flame had come far above them. In the darkness he answered shot for shot. After the sound of the shots came a complete silence, and Westerham, as he stood stock-still beside the gate, which was now swinging idly over the pond, could hear the patter of the water on the path as it dripped from his clothes. Mendip, as soon as he had seen that Westerham was safe, had run along the hedge, and now he gave a shout. “This is the gate we want,” he cried. But a third spit of flame came from the darkness overhead, and Westerham heard Mendip swearing softly under his breath. Whoever their unknown assailant might be, he was no mean marksman. Westerham and Lowther ran to Mendip's aid. “What's up?” asked Westerham. “Nothing,” answered Mendip, and he got the gate opened. The three men dashed up the path and reached the door of the farmhouse; but it was made of stout oak, and securely fastened within. They thrust their shoulders against it without avail, and then stood looking at one another, panting, and for the moment baffled. It was then that Westerham's quick ear caught a woman's voice. He whipped round and looked across the sheet of water. His eyes were now well accustomed to the gloom, and he saw the form of a woman leaning far out of a window and gesticulating wildly. He held up his hand to the others for silence, and then once more came a voice which he instantly recognised. It was the voice of Mme. Estelle. “Be quick! Be quick!” she cried. “If you don't wish to be too late, you must swim the pond, the door is barred.” Westerham cast a quick glance behind him, and his eyes fell on the gate. “Use that as a battering ram,” he ordered, and then his jaws closed over the butt of his revolver. Without hesitation he waded in, and a few strong strokes brought him beneath the window out of which Mme. Estelle leant and waved. He knew instinctively by her accents that she was terrified beyond measure and that he need not expect treachery from her. With one hand he clutched the sill, with the other he reached up and shifting the safety-cap on with his thumb, let his revolver fall into the room.