The knowledge stood him in good stead now.  What window upstairs would be open, he wondered.  The bath-room, of course; it was small, but he could wriggle through it, he told himself, or he would break every bone in his body, at least, trying.  All this time he was running and crouching along the shadow of the high stone wall, that, bordered with shrubs, made splendid “cover.”  He reached the kitchen, and, without waiting to think whether it would bear him or not, seized hold of the twisted vine trunks of the old Virginia creeper that partly covered the house from ground to roof.  Fortunately they held, and up he went like a young squirrel, his bare toes clutching like claws in the tangle of the stems and twigs.  He gained the roof, crawled rapidly along, and reached the bath-room window, only to find he could barely clutch the sill with the tips of his fingers.  Standing on tiptoe, he got a little grip, then his bare toes and knees started to work; inch by inch up they went over the rough stone wall, while his hands slipped further and further over the sill, until they could seize the ledge on the inside.  Twice his knees slid back, then his toes refused to clutch.  They grew wet, and warm, and he knew the sickening slipping back was because of blood oozing from his skin.  But he was in the bath-room now, and didn’t care.  Then, as he flung the door open, the whole downstairs hall was flooded with light, and a strange choking sound came from below.  Then the doctor’s voice, smothered but audible, begging, “Go back!  Go back, Connie!  Lock your door!”

“You say one word aloud and I’ll fire!” said a low voice, and Buck reached the head of the stairs only to see Doctor Raymond lying half dressed on the floor, his hands tied behind him, and a grasp of strong, dirty fingers on his throat.

“Oh, you’re killing him!  You’re killing my father!” cried Miss Connie, in a half scream, as, too frightened to move, she stood huddled back in a corner, gripping a large cloak about her.

Buck stared at the scene a fraction of a second.  He could understand it all.  The doctor had been alarmed and had gone downstairs to investigate.  Miss Connie had been awakened and had followed her father, thinking probably that he was ill.  All this flashed through the boy’s mind as he flung out his weaponless hands in despair, but the gesture was the salvation of the household.  His fingers touched something cold, hard, polished.  It was a huge, heavy, brass bowl that held a fern.  How often his strong young fingers had cleaned that bowl with powder and chamois skin, with never a thought that it would serve him well some time!  Now he grasped it, and creeping noiselessly around the large, square “balcony” of the upstairs hall, he stood directly above the ruffian whose fingers yet clutched the doctor’s throat.

“Catch that girl!” the other man was saying.  “She’ll scream!  Catch her, I say, and gag her!”