“Turn on the light, Billy,” he heard Rann say in a quiet, unexcited voice.  “We’ve got this house-breaker cornered, and he’s lost his gun.  Turn on the light—­and I’ll make one shot do the business!”

Aldous heard Quade moving, but he was not coming toward the table.  Somewhere in the room was another switch connected with the iron lamp, and Aldous felt a curious chill shoot up his spine.  Without seeing through that pitch darkness of the room he sensed the fact that Culver Rann was standing with his back against the locked door, a revolver in his hand.  And he knew that Quade, feeling his way along the wall, held a revolver in his hand.  Men like these two did not go unarmed.  The instant the light was turned on they would do their work.  As he stood, silent as Culver Rann, he realized the tables were turned.  In that moment’s madness roused by Quade’s gloating assurance of possessing Joanne he had revealed himself like a fool, and now he was about to reap the whirlwind of his folly.  Deliberately he had given himself up to his enemies.  They, too, would be fools if they allowed him to escape alive.

He heard Quade stop.  His thick hand was fumbling along the wall.  Aldous guessed that he was feeling for the switch.  He almost fancied he could see Rann’s revolver levelled at him through the darkness.  In that thrilling moment his mind worked with the swiftness of a powder flash.  One of his hands touched the edge of the desk-table, and he knew that he was standing directly opposite the curtained window, perhaps six feet from it.  If he flung himself through the window the curtain would save him from being cut to pieces.

No sooner had the idea of escape come to him than he had acted.  A flood of light filled the room as his body crashed through the glass.  He heard a cry—­a single shot—­as he struck the ground.  He gathered himself up and ran swiftly.  Fifty yards away he stopped, and looked back.  Quade and Rann were in the window.  Then they disappeared, and a moment later the room was again in gloom.

For a second time Aldous hurried in the direction of MacDonald’s camp.  He knew that, in spite of the protecting curtain, the glass had cut him.  He felt the warm blood dripping over his face; both hands were wet with it, The arm on which he had received the blow from the unseen object in the room gave him considerable pain, and he had slightly sprained an ankle in his leap through the window, so that he limped a little.  But his mind was clear—­so clear that in the face of his physical discomfort he caught himself laughing once or twice as he made his way along the trail.

Aldous was not of an ordinary type.  To a curious and superlative degree he could appreciate a defeat as well as a triumph.  His adventures had been a part of a life in which he had not always expected to win, and in to-night’s game he admitted that he had been hopelessly and ridiculously beaten.  Tragedy, to him, was a first cousin of comedy; to-night he had set out to kill, and, instead of killing, he had run like a jack-rabbit for cover.  Also, in that same half-hour Rann and Quade had been sure of him, and he had given them the surprise of their lives by his catapultic disappearance through the window.  There was something ludicrous about it all—­something that, to him, at least, had turned a possible tragedy into a very good comedy-drama.