Robert experienced a chill that crept, via the spine and nape, to his brain. The short hairs on the back of his head felt as if they had begun to bristle. A ghostly cowardice flooded his being, penetrating to the uttermost recesses. "Good lord!" he thought, "it must be a burglar!" His first instinct was to lie down and draw the clothes over his head; his second, to jab his wife sharply in the ribs: company in the imminent peril was his prime necessity. Both these base impulses he controlled. Though elderly, he felt himself still a man; and despite the fact that he had no audience, no public opinion to make heroism easy, he realized that his part must be played alone at all costs. As he came to this resolve his natural apprehension subsided: he felt calmer, more collected. Sitting up in bed, he listened with strained ears. For a moment there was silence; then came the quiet but distinct opening of a door below. His misgivings had a solid foundation; and with a dismal determination Robert cautiously got out of bed. Why he did not wake his wife he hardly knew. Perhaps it was chivalry, perhaps a subconscious sense that she might spoil the fun. Yes, that was the odd phrase that formed in his mind once the temporary panic was subdued. With a wry smile--remembering his previous complaints of a vacant life and his thirst for adventures--Robert tiptoed cautiously to the dressing-table. Here he made a swift and partial toilet. He slipped on a pair of trousers, a coat and some boots--for in the midst of his apprehensions he had a foolish idea that the burglar might tread on his toes. Then without noise he opened the top right-hand corner drawer, where he kept his collars and handkerchiefs, and took out a small revolver. As he handled the stock he felt his new manhood glowing like champagne in every artery. Life! He had begun to live. How did it happen that a harmless churchwarden and retired cashier possessed so lethal a weapon? Simply, it was due to a mixture of precaution and romanticism. He had always thought a burglar _might_ come, and deep in his composition lay a vein of adventure. It was fine to have a pistol--a loaded pistol--even though never used. It gave a sense of power and desperation. He sometimes fondled it and dreamed of defending himself against a marauder or a mob. But such demonstrations took place only when his wife was out. Robert took the pistol in an unshaking hand and conveyed himself quietly from the room. He was not in the least frightened now; indeed he was beginning to enjoy this new sense of being master of the situation. Quietly he crept down-stairs, as close to the wall as possible to prevent creaking. At the foot of the stairs he stood still and listened.... There was no sound. But from the keyhole of the drawing-room came a little pencil of light. Behind the door was--what? Robert cocked the pistol, opened the door, and with a little gasp of triumph said, "Hands up!" CHAPTER VIII A TALE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES