“Stop, or I’ll fire!” Willie repeated, as I sat up in bed.

I knew quite well that he had no weapon.  There was not one in the house.  But the next moment there was a loud report, either a door slamming or a pistol-shot, and I ran to the head of the stairs.

There was no light below, but a current of cool night air came up the staircase.  And suddenly I realized that there was complete silence in the house.

“Willie!” I cried out, in an agony of fright.  But he did not reply.  And then, suddenly, the telephone rang.

I did not answer it.  I know now why it rang, that there was real anxiety behind its summons.  But I hardly heard it then.  I was convinced that Willie had been shot.

I must have gone noiselessly down the stairs, and at the foot I ran directly into Willie.  He was standing there, only a deeper shadow in the blackness, and I had placed my hand over his, as it lay on the newel-post, before he knew I was on the staircase.  He wheeled sharply, and I felt, to my surprise, that he held a revolver in his hand.

“Willie!  What is it?” I said in a low tone.

“’Sh,” he whispered.  “Don’t move—­or speak.”

We listened, standing together.  There were undoubtedly sounds outside, some one moving about, a hand on a window-catch, and finally not particularly cautious steps at the front door.  It swung open.  I could hear it creak as it moved slowly on its hinges.

I put a hand out to steady myself by the comfort of Willie’s presence before me, between me and that softly-opening door.  But Willie was moving forward, crouched down, I fancied, and the memory of that revolver terrified me.

“Don’t shoot him, Willie!” I almost shrieked.

“Shoot whom?” said Willie’s cool voice, just inside the door.

I knew then, and I went sick all over.  Somewhere in the hall between us crouched the man I had taken for Willie, crouched with a revolver in his right hand.  The door was still open, I knew, and I could hear Willie fumbling on the hall-stand for matches.  I called out something incoherent about not striking a light; but Willie, whistling softly to show how cool he was, struck a match.  It was followed instantly by a report, and I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Willie was standing unhurt, staring over the burning match at the door, which was closed, and I knew that the report had been but the bang of the heavy door.

“What in blazes slammed that door?” he said.

“The burglar, or whatever he is,” I said, my voice trembling in spite of me.  “He was here, in front of me.  I laid my hand on his.  He had a revolver in it.  When you opened the door, he slipped out past you.”

Willie muttered something, and went toward the door.  A moment later I was alone again, and the telephone was ringing.  I felt my way back along the hall.  I touched the cat, which had been sleeping on the telephone-stand.  He merely turned over.