FIREARMS

In the middle of the night Virginia was awakened by the sound of a
revolver shot. She put on her dressing-gown, and, with an electric torch
in her hand, started to descend the stairs. The house was already,
however, a blaze of light. Electric alarm bells were ringing, and
servants were hurrying toward the library. The man Leverson was sitting
in an easy-chair, with an ugly gash across the temple, and one of his
men had a revolver wound through the shoulder. One of the two burglars,
however, whom they had surprised, was a prisoner in their hands, a pale,
sullen-looking man, who had apparently accepted his fate quite
philosophically. He was just being marched off by the uniformed police
when Virginia arrived.

"Has anything been taken?" she asked Leverson.

"Not a thing, miss," the man answered. "There were three of them, but
two escaped. One was Bill Danes, I'm sure o' that, and we can lay our
hands upon him at any time. This one I don't know, but they meant
business. They had enough dynamite with them to blow the house up."

She crossed to her uncle's desk and looked downward. The carpet had
apparently not been disturbed. There were no signs that it had been
touched at all.

"Are these men ordinary burglars?" she asked Leverson.

He hesitated.