He heard some one moving
outside.
Very quietly he reached out to the stand at his elbow, got his revolver
and his flashlight, and slipped to the floor. The malefactor without was
approaching the window. Another flash of lightning would have revealed
much to Banneker had he not been crouching close under the sill, on the
inside, so that the radiance of his light, when he found the button,
should not expose him to a straight shot.
A hand fumbled at the open window. Finger on trigger, Banneker held up
his flashlight in his left hand and irradiated the spot. He saw the
hand, groping, and on one of its fingers something which returned a more
brilliant gleam than the electric ray. In his crass amazement, the agent
straightened up, a full mark for murder, staring at a diamond-and-ruby
ring set upon a short, delicate finger.
No sound came from outside. But the hand became instantly tense. It fell
upon the sill and clutched it so hard that the knuckles stood out,
white, strained and garish. Banneker's own strong hand descended upon
the wrist. A voice said softly and tremulously:
"Please!"
The appeal went straight to Banneker's heart and quivered there, like a
soft flame, like music heard in an unrealizable dream.
"Who are you?" he asked, and the voice said:
"Don't hurt me.
Pages:
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56