He snatched a patchwork rug from the floor and stuck it up against the
balusters. "You stay here," said Mrs. Waters. He nodded.

She pointed the gun at the hearth-rug, the walls shook with the
explosion, and, with a shriek that set Mr. Travers's teeth on edge, she
rushed downstairs and, drawing back the bolts of the back door, tottered
outside and into the arms of the agitated boatswain.

"Oh! oh! oh!" she cried.

"What--what's the matter?" gasped the boatswain.

The widow struggled in his arms. "A burglar," she said, in a tense
whisper. "But it's all right; I've killed him."

"Kill--" stuttered the other. "Kill----_Killed him?_"

Mrs. Waters nodded and released herself, "First shot," she said, with a
satisfied air.

The boatswain wrung his hands. "Good heavens!" he said, moving slowly
towards the door. "Poor fellow!"

"Come back," said the widow, tugging at his coat.

"I was--was going to see--whether I could do anything for 'im," quavered
the boatswain. "Poor fellow!"

"You stay where you are," commanded Mrs. Waters. "I don't want any