The rest of Fenwick's sentence was drowned in a sudden uproar which
seemed to break out in a room overhead. The tense silence was broken by
the thud of heavy blows as if someone were banging on a door, then came
muttered shouts and yells of unmistakable pain. Hastily Fenwick rose from
his seat and made in the direction of the door. He had hardly advanced
two steps before he found himself confronted with the rim of a
silver-plated revolver, which the cripple was holding directly in the
line of his head.

"Sit down," the latter said tersely. "Sit down, or, as sure as I am a
living man, I'll fire. I could say that I fired the shot in self-defence,
and when the whole story comes to be told I have no fear that a jury
would disbelieve me. Besides, there is nothing to be afraid of. Those
sounds don't come from the police trying to force their way into the
house. On the contrary, it seems to me that some of your parasites are
having a misunderstanding over their cards. At any rate, you are not to
move. If you do, there will be an end once and for all of the millionaire
Mark Fenwick. Sit down, my child--you are trembling from head to foot."

"It was his voice," the girl cried. "I am certain that it was Charles who
called out just now."

Once more the shouts and cries broke out, once more came that banging on
the panels, followed by a splitting crash, after which the uproar
doubled. Evidently a door had given way and the conflict was being fought
out on the stairs.

"Shall we go and take a hand?" Gurdon whispered excitedly. "Murder might
be going on here."