The burglar in grey made two hasty steps to the window. Mr. Penfound’s revolver spoke--it was the one in his left hand, containing two shots--and with a muffled howl the burglar suddenly halted, cursing with pain and anger. “Hands up, both of you!” repeated Mr. Penfound imperturbably. A few drops of blood appeared on the left wrist of the older burglar, showing where he had been hit. With evident pain he raised both hands to the level of his shoulders; the left hand clearly was useless; it hung sideways in a peculiar fashion. The youthful criminal was trembling like a spray of maidenhair, and had his hands high up over his head. Mr. Penfound joyfully reflected that no London burglar had ever before found himself in such a ridiculous position as these two, and he took a genuine, artistic pleasure in the spectacle. But what to do next. The youth began to speak with a whine like that of a beggar. “Silence!” said Mr. Penfound impressively, and proceeded with his cogitations, a revolver firm and steady in each hand. The shot had evidently not wakened his wife, and to disturb her now from a refreshing and long-needed sleep in order to send her for the police would not only be unchivalrous, it would disclose a lack of resource, a certain clumsiness of management, in an affair which Mr. Penfound felt sure he ought to be able to carry neatly to an effective conclusion. Besides, if a revolver-shot in the house had not wakened his wife, what could wake her? He could not go upstairs to her and leave the burglars to await his return. Then an idea occurred to Mr. Penfound. “Now, my men,” he said cheerfully, “I think you understand that I am not joking, and that I can shoot a bit, and that, whatever the laws of this country, I _do_ shoot.” He waved the muzzle of one revolver in the direction of the grey man’s injured wrist. “Look here, governor,” the owner of the wrist pleaded, “it hurts dreadful. I shall faint.” “Faint, then. I know it hurts.” The man’s face was white with pain, but Mr. Penfound had seen too many strange sights in his life to be greatly moved by the sight of a rascal with a bullet in his anatomy. “To proceed. You will stand side by side and turn round. The young gentleman will open the window, and you will pass out into the garden. March! Slower, slower, I say. Halt!” The burglars were now outside, while Mr. Penfound was still within the room. He followed them, and in doing so stumbled over a black bag which lay on the floor. Fortunately he recovered himself instantly. He noticed lying on the top of the bag a small bunch of skeleton keys, some putty, and what looked like a thong of raw hide. He also observed that three small panes of the French window had been forced inwards. “Turn to your left, go down the pathway, and halt when you come to the side gate. And don’t hurry, mind you.”