Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
there led a staircase to the lower private entry, where a door would give him exit to the street.
For all he could determine to the contrary, however, that room had never existed, save in his fancy; suite after suite he tried, desperately, only to find one passage after another closed to him; until, at last, he stood cornered, choking for breath and disheartened, in an open closet.
On either side he could hear the trampling feet of the conspirators, as they searched and prodded each several recess to poke him forth from hiding. He dared not move a pace out of his refuge; and if he remained he was foredoomed to discovery.
And then—well, then there would be trouble, indeed. "A shindy," he called it, with a rousing of his blood at the thought of battle. He was, for a little space, debating the advisability of sallying out and changing rôles with his enemies, becoming the hunter instead of the hunted.
It seemed at the time quite feasible, when all else seemed hopeless. He wetted his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. "It might be done," he whispered encouragement to himself. "It might be done."
He had nine bullets left; there were eight pursuers; he dared not miss one single shot. Beyond doubt, the others were all well armed—some, doubtless, with two revolvers, even.
No; it would be madness, folly! But, then, everything he had done that night had been madness and folly; not a single action that he could recall had been of a nature that could be characterized as anything but insane.
And the chase was fearfully near at hand. He drew himself together. It was now too late to take the initiative; they were in the next room.
He poised one revolver. The first to pass, across the
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