“See here, old lady,” warned the man, “you keep your eyes in the room.  Now then,” his greedy glance fastened on the glittering gems on her fingers, “I’ll thank you to rip them things off.”  Dick, racing along the further end of the hall after his bird with a “Whoop, la—­I’ve almost caught you,” startling him, he proceeded to perform the service for himself.

“There he goes!” cried Dick, “in her room.  Bother!  Well, I must catch him.”  So without the preamble of knocking, the boy dashed into the dressing-room.  The bird whizzing ahead of him, flashed between the drawn folds of the portiere.

“Excuse me,” cried Dick, rushing in, “but my swallow—­oh!”

“Go back!” cried Mrs. Chatterton hoarsely, “you’ll be killed.”

The bird flying over his head, and the appearance of the boy, disconcerted the robber for one instant.  He held the long white hand in his, tearing off the rings.  There was no chance for her to escape, she knew, but she could save Dick.

“Go back!” she screamed again.  There was only a moment to think, but Dick dashed in, and with a mighty spirit, but small fists, he flung himself against the stalwart arms and shoulders.

“O heavens!” screamed Mrs. Chatterton.  “He’s but a boy, let him go.  You shall have the rings.  Help—­help!”

Dick, clutching and tearing blindly at whatever in the line of hair or ragged garment he could lay hold of, was waging an unequal warfare.  But what he did was accomplished finely.  And the bird, rushing blindly into the midst of the contention, with whirrings and flappings indescribable, helped more than an army of servants, to confuse the man.  Notwithstanding, it was soon over, but not before Mrs. Chatterton had wrenched her fingers free, and grasped the pistol from its loose hold in his other hand.  The box under his arm fell to the floor, and Dick was just being tossed to the other side of the room; she could hear him strike the cheval-glass with a dull thud.

“I can shoot as well as you,” said Mrs. Chatterton, handling the pistol deftly.  “Make a noise, and I will.”

He knew it, by her eyes, and that she had taken good aim.

“Where are you, Dick?” cried Polly’s voice outside, and rapping at the door.  “Mrs. Chatterton, have you seen him?”

“Come in,” called Mrs. Chatterton, with firmest of fingers on the trigger and her flashing eyes fastened upon the seamed, dirty face before her.

Polly threw wide the door.

“We have a man here that we don’t want,” said Mrs. Chatterton.  “I’ll take care of him till you get help.  Hurry!”

“Oh, Dick!” cried Polly in a breath, with a fearful glance at the boy lying there.

“I think he’s all right, Polly.”  She dared say no more, for Dick had not stirred.

Polly clasped her hands, and rushed out almost into Jasper’s face.  “A burglar—­a burglar!” and he dashed into Mrs. Chatterton’s room.