"Call the gendarmes," whispered de Cartier, panic stricken. "Call
the servants."

"We don't want the officers nor the servants," said Philip, coolly.
"Let the ladies get inside the house and we'll soon have a look at
our fellow guest."

"But he may be armed," said the count, nervously.

"Doubtless he is. Burglars usually are. I had an experience with an
armed burglar once on a time, and I still live. Perhaps a few palms
will be damaged, but we'll be as considerate as possible. There is
no time to lose, gentlemen. He may be trying to escape even now."

Without another word he turned and walked straight toward the palms.
Not another man followed, and he faced the unwelcome guest alone.
Faced is the right word, for the owner of the telltale foot had
taken advantage of their momentary absence from that end of the
porch to make a hurried and reckless attempt to leave his cramped
and dangerous hiding-place. He was crowding through the outer circle
of huge leaves when Quentin swung into view. The light from the
window was full in the face of the stranger, white, scared, dogged.

"Here he is!" cried Quentin, leaping forward. "Come on, gentlemen!"

With a frantic plunge the trapped stranger crashed through the
plants, crying hoarsely in French as he met Quentin in the open:

"I don't want to kill you! Keep off!"