The sound of an opening door made him start violently, and he stood still, scarcely breathing, with his ears on the alert.  A light shone on the landing, and peeping round the door he saw a woman coming along the corridor—­a younger and better-looking woman than he had expected to see.  In one hand she held aloft a candle, in the other she bore a double-barrelled gun.  Mr. Travers withdrew into the room and, as the light came nearer, slipped into a big cupboard by the side of the fireplace and, standing bolt upright, waited.  The light came into the room.

“Must have been my fancy,” said a pleasant voice.

“Bless her,” smiled Mr. Travers.

His trained ear recognized the sound of cocking triggers.  The next moment a heavy body bumped against the door of the cupboard and the key turned in the lock.

“Got you!” said the voice, triumphantly.  “Keep still; if you try and break out I shall shoot you.”

“All right,” said Mr. Travers, hastily; “I won’t move.”

“Better not,” said the voice.  “Mind, I’ve got a gun pointing straight at you.”

“Point it downwards, there’s a good girl,” said Mr. Travers, earnestly; “and take your finger off the trigger.  If anything happened to me you’d never forgive yourself.”

“It’s all right so long as you don’t move,” said the voice; “and I’m not a girl,” it added, sternly.

“Yes, you are,” said the prisoner.  “I saw you.  I thought it was an angel at first.  I saw your little bare feet and—­”

A faint scream interrupted him.

“You’ll catch cold,” urged Mr. Travers.

“Don’t you trouble about me,” said the voice, tartly.

“I won’t give any trouble,” said Mr. Travers, who began to think it was time for the boatswain to appear on the scene.  “Why don’t you call for help?  I’ll go like a lamb.”

“I don’t want your advice,” was the reply.  “I know what to do.  Now, don’t you try and break out.  I’m going to fire one barrel out of the window, but I’ve got the other one for you if you move.”

“My dear girl,” protested the horrified Mr. Travers, “you’ll alarm the neighbourhood.”

“Just what I want to do,” said the voice.  “Keep still, mind.”

Mr. Travers hesitated.  The game was up, and it was clear that in any case the stratagem of the ingenious Mr. Benn would have to be disclosed.

“Stop!” he said, earnestly.  “Don’t do anything rash.  I’m not a burglar; I’m doing this for a friend of yours—­Mr. Benn.”

“What?” said an amazed voice.

“True as I stand here,” asseverated Mr. Travers.  “Here, here’s my instructions.  I’ll put ’em under the door, and if you go to the back window you’ll see him in the garden waiting.”

He rustled the paper under the door, and it was at once snatched from his fingers.  He regained an upright position and stood listening to the startled and indignant exclamations of his gaoler as she read the boatswain’s permit: