“It is partly good luck, but not all,” he panted in a whisper. “If we had persisted in the search last night, he would have taken alarm and fled. Now—we have him. Are you ready?” He gave a mighty rap at the door with the fire tongs, and stood expectant. Certainly he was right; some one moved within. “Hello! Hello there!” Hotchkiss bawled. “You might as well come out. We won’t hurt you, if you’ll come peaceably.” “Tell him we represent the law,” I prompted. “That’s the customary thing, you know.” But at that moment a bullet came squarely through the door and flattened itself with a sharp _pst_ against the wall of the tower staircase. We ducked unanimously, dropped back out of range, and Hotchkiss retaliated with a spirited bang at the door with the tongs. This brought another bullet. It was a ridiculous situation. Under the circumstances, no doubt, we should have retired, at least until we had armed ourselves, but Hotchkiss had no end of fighting spirit, and as for me, my blood was up. “Break the lock,” I suggested, and Hotchkiss, standing at the side, out of range, retaliated for every bullet by a smashing blow with the tongs. The shots ceased after a half dozen, and the door was giving, slowly. One of us on each side of the door, we were ready for almost any kind of desperate resistance. As it swung open Hotchkiss poised the tongs; I stood, bent forward, my arm drawn back for a blow. Nothing happened. There was not a sound. Finally, at the risk of losing an eye which I justly value, I peered around and into the room. There was no desperado there: only a fresh-faced, trembling-lipped servant, sitting on the edge of her bed, with a quilt around her shoulders and the empty revolver at her feet. We were victorious, but no conquered army ever beat such a retreat as ours down the tower stairs and into the refuge of the living-room. There, with the door closed, sprawled on the divan, I went from one spasm of mirth into another, becoming sane at intervals, and suffering relapse again every time I saw Hotchkiss’ disgruntled countenance. He was pacing the room, the tongs still in his hand, his mouth pursed with irritation. Finally he stopped in front of me and compelled my attention. “When you have finished cackling,” he said with dignity, “I wish to justify my position. Do you think the—er—young woman up-stairs put a pair of number eight boots to dry in the library last night? Do you think she poured the whisky out of that decanter?” “They have been known to do it,” I put in, but his eye silenced me. “Moreover, if she had been the person who peered at you over the gallery railing last night, don’t you suppose, with her—er—belligerent disposition, she could have filled you as full of lead as a window weight?” “I do,” I assented. “It wasn’t Alice-sit-by-the-fire. I grant you that. Then who was it?”