In that second of consternation he had remembered that only two chambers of one revolver and one chamber of the other were loaded. It was an unfortunate mischance. Should he return and load fully? Preposterous! He remembered with pride the sensation which he had caused one night ten years before in a private shooting-saloon in Paris. Three shots to cripple one burglar--for _him_; it was a positive extravagance of means. And he continued down the stairs, cautiously but rapidly feeling his way. The next occurrence brought him up standing at the dining-room door, which was open. He heard voices in the dining-room. There were, then, two burglars. Three shots for two burglars? Pooh! Ample! This was what he heard:-- “Did you drink out of this glass, Jack?” “Not I. I took a pull out of the bottle.” “So did I.” “Well?” There was a pause. Mr. Penfound discovered that by putting an eye to the crack at the hinges he could see the burglars, who had lighted one gas jet, and were sitting at the table. They were his first burglars, and they rather shocked his preconceived notions of the type. They hadn’t the look of burglars--no bluish chins, no lowering eyes, no corduroy, no knotted red handkerchiefs. One, the younger, dressed in blue serge, with linen collar and a soiled pink necktie, might have been a city clerk of the lower grade; he had light, bushy hair and a yellow moustache, his eyes were large and pale blue, his chin weak; altogether Mr. Penfound decided that had he seen the young man elsewhere than in that dining-room he would never have suspected him to be a burglar. The other was of middle age, neatly dressed in dark grey, but with a ruffian’s face, and black hair, cut extremely close; he wore a soft felt hat at a negligent poise, and was smoking a cigarette. He was examining the glass out of which Mr. Penfound had but recently drunk whisky. “Look here, Jack,” the man in grey said to his companion. “You haven’t drunk out of this glass, and I haven’t; but someone’s drunk out of it. It’s wet.” The young man paled, and with an oath snatched up the glass to look at it. Mr. Penfound noticed how suddenly his features writhed into a complicated expression of cowardice, cunning, and vice. He no longer doubted that the youth was an authentic burglar. The older man remained calm. “This house isn’t so empty as we thought, my boy. There’s someone here.” “Yes, gentlemen, there is,” remarked Mr. Penfound, quietly stepping into the room with a revolver upraised in each hand. The young man dropped the glass, and, after rolling along the table, it fell on the floor and broke, making a marvellous noise in the silence. “Well, I’m blowed!” exclaimed the burglar in grey, and turned to the window. “Don’t stir; put your hands up, and look slippy--I mean business,” said Mr. Penfound steadily.