“He is in the garden now.”

Something scraped slightly against the outer wall.  But the night was full of wilder sounds, and in the house the furniture and the boards creaked and sprung between the yawling of the wind among the chimneys, the rattle of the thunder and the pelting of the rain.  It was a time to quicken the steadiest pulse, and when the crucial moment came, when a pebble suddenly rang against the pane with a sound that the tense waiting magnified into a shivering crash, Hollyer leapt from the bed on the instant.

“Easy, easy,” warned Carrados feelingly.  “We will wait for another knock.”  He passed something across.  “Here is a rubber glove.  I have cut the wire but you had better put it on.  Stand just for a moment at the window, move the catch so that it can blow open a little, and drop immediately.  Now.”

Another stone had rattled against the glass.  For Hollyer to go through his part was the work merely of seconds, and with a few touches Carrados spread the dressing-gown to more effective disguise about the extended form.  But an unforeseen and in the circumstances rather horrible interval followed, for Creake, in accordance with some detail of his never-revealed plan, continued to shower missile after missile against the panes until even the unimpressionable Parkinson shivered.

“The last act,” whispered Carrados, a moment after the throwing had ceased.  “He has gone round to the back.  Keep as you are.  We take cover now.”  He pressed behind the arras of an extemporized wardrobe, and the spirit of emptiness and desolation seemed once more to reign over the lonely house.

From half-a-dozen places of concealment ears were straining to catch the first guiding sound.  He moved very stealthily, burdened, perhaps, by some strange scruple in the presence of the tragedy that he had not feared to contrive, paused for a moment at the bedroom door, then opened it very quietly, and in the fickle light read the consummation of his hopes.

“At last!” they heard the sharp whisper drawn from his relief.  “At last!”

He took another step and two shadows seemed to fall upon him from behind, one on either side.  With primitive instinct a cry of terror and surprise escaped him as he made a desperate movement to wrench himself free, and for a short second he almost succeeded in dragging one hand into a pocket.  Then his wrists slowly came together and the handcuffs closed.

“I am Inspector Beedel,” said the man on his right side.  “You are charged with the attempted murder of your wife, Millicent Creake.”

“You are mad,” retorted the miserable creature, falling into a desperate calmness.  “She has been struck by lightning.”

“No, you blackguard, she hasn’t,” wrathfully exclaimed his brother-in-law, jumping up.  “Would you like to see her?”

“I also have to warn you,” continued the inspector impassively, “that anything you say may be used as evidence against you.”