THE LADY OF THE HOUSE

Until that moment of the woman’s shot, what with the failure of P. Sybarite’s weapon to fire and the strange, muted coughing of the assassin’s, an atmosphere of veritable decorum, nothing less, had seemed to mark the triangular duel, lending it something of the fantastic quality of a nightmare:  an effect to which the discovery of a marauder, where P. Sybarite had expected to find nobody, added measurably....

But now, temporarily blinded by that vicious bright blade of flame stabbing the gloom a hand’s breadth from his eyes, and deafened by the crash of the explosion not two feet from his ear-drums, he quickened to the circumstances with much of the confusion of a man awakened by a thunder-clap from evil dreams to realities yet more grim.

Of a sudden he understood that murder had been attempted in his presence and knowledge:  a stark and hideous fact, jarring upon the semi-humorous indulgence with which hitherto he had been inclined to regard the unfolding of this night of outre adventure.  Twice the man had shot to kill with that singular weapon of silent deadliness—­and both times had missed his mark by the barest margin....

At once, like a demon of exceptional malignity, a breathless and overpowering rage possessed P. Sybarite.  Without the least hesitation he stretched forth a hand, snatched the pistol from the grasp of the woman—­who seemed to relinquish it more through surprise than willingly—­threw himself halfway down the stairs, and took a hasty pot-shot at the man—­almost invisible in the darkness as he rounded the turn of the next flight.

Missing, P. Sybarite flung on recklessly.  As he gained the lower floor, the hall lights flashed up, switched on from the upper landing by the woman of the house.  Thus aided, he caught another glimpse of his prey midway down the next flight, and checked to take a second shot.

Again he missed; and as the bullet buried itself in splintering wainscoting, a cry of almost childish petulence escaped him.  With but one thought, he hurled on, swung round to the head of the stairs, saw his man at the bottom, pulled up to aim, and....

Beneath him a small rug slipped on polished parquetry of the landing.  P. Sybarite’s heels went up and his head down with a sickening thump.  He heard his pistol explode once more, and again visioned a reeling firmament fugitively coruscant with strange constellations.

Then—­bounding up with uncommon resiliency—­he saw the street door of the house close behind the fugitive and heard the heavy slam of it.

In another breath, pulling himself together, he was up and descending three and four steps at a stride.  Reaching the door, he threw it open and himself heedlessly out and down a high stone stoop to the sidewalk—­pulled up, bewildered to discover himself the sole living thing visible in all that night-hushed stretch between Fifth Avenue and Sixth:  of the assassin there was neither sign nor sound....