CHAPTER VII.
A SHOT FROM THE DARK.
The study door was opposite the window. It was shut, but not locked, of course, and all at once Max saw a knob begin to turn.
Apparently it made no sound, for the four men went on with their work—the lawyer and Frost opening the bag preparatory to putting the jewel cases into it, and Atherton and Professor Tufts stowing away the apparatus in its case.
Every fiber of the waiter’s being tingled with suppressed excitement. It was only too plain that somebody was outside the door, preparing to burst in and take the burglars by surprise.
What ought he to do? Should he call out and warn them of their danger? Should he make his own escape before the storm burst?
He had no time to decide, for all at once, with dramatic suddenness, the door was flung open, and Francis Massey sprang into the room clad in dressing gown and slippers, and armed with a revolver.
“Hands up, if you don’t want a bullet in you!” he cried, leveling his weapon at Atherton with one hand, while with the other he pressed the switch beside the door and flooded the room with light.
The intruders had been content with their electric torches and the brilliant flame of the blowpipe.
With simultaneous cries of dismay the four men spun around and faced the owner of the house.
“Stop that instantly, or I’ll fire!” cried the latter, as Atherton’s hand stole toward his pocket. “Put your hands up, all of you! This revolver is loaded in every chamber, and as you may be aware, I have some little reputation as a crack shot.”
This was true enough, for Francis Massey had been a famous sportsman in his younger days, and was still an expert with the revolver.
Half the length of the room separated him from the four men, and if they had attempted to rush him, he could have—and probably would have—dropped all four of them before they could have reached him.
“That’s better!” he said grimly, as the quartet quickly raised their hands above their heads. “Now, kindly oblige me by walking backward and standing with your backs to that wall behind you. Be quick about it!”
The waiter outside could have laughed at the ignominious spectacle presented by the four masked burglars as they silently and sullenly shuffled backward, and ranged themselves in a line against the wall.
Although the scene appealed to his sense of humor, it also had its serious side—even from Max’s point of view.
All his plans for the future would be ruined if these men were captured and their identity unmasked. At any rate, they must be allowed to escape, and, after a moment’s hurried thought, the waiter drew out his own revolver and cautiously pushed the muzzle under the lower edge of the curtain.
“Massey doesn’t happen to be the only crack shot on hand,” he told himself.
“I’m now going to ring for help,” the millionaire announced, moving slowly toward an electric button set into his desk. “You’ll remain just where you are until the servants come, and the very first man among you who attempts to play any tricks will be shot down like a dog, without any further——”
Crack!
At that moment Max Berne pressed the trigger of his revolver, and the bullet, true to its aim, struck Massey on the wrist, shattering the bone and causing him to drop the weapon with an involuntary howl of pain.
What happened next the waiter did not stop to see. As soon as he had fired and had thereby given Atherton and his companions a chance to make their escape, he leaped to his feet and dashed off in the direction of the wooden door, which opened into the lane.
Long before he reached the door, he heard the four men racing across in the same direction. As he did not wish them to see him, however, he hid himself behind some bushes, but as soon as they had passed him, he emerged from his hiding place, and followed them at a little distance.
Meanwhile, the report of the revolver had aroused the occupants of the house, and by the time Max reached the door in the wall, he could hear the servants running out of the house and calling to one another through the darkness.
By that time, though, Atherton and the others had scrambled into their machine, and the car was halfway down the lane.
Swiftly, yet without any trace of flurry, the waiter darted across the road, snatched away the screen of leaves from his motor cycle, and wheeled the machine into the lane.
While he was starting the engine, he heard a number of servants running toward the door, and, just as he mounted, two of them dashed out.
“Here’s one of them!” called the foremost servant, and, as he uttered the words, he rushed at Max and tried to seize him by the arm.
A blow in the mouth, however, sent him reeling back into the arms of the other servants, and the next instant the waiter was scorching down the lane at a speed which defied pursuit.
Half an hour later, after passing through Freehold, Berne caught sight of the tail lights of Atherton’s car. He easily could have overtaken it had he wished, but he preferred to follow it at a respectful distance.
Eventually, to make a long story short, he saw it thread its way through the outlying districts of Long Island City, across the Queensborough Bridge, and plunge into the narrow streets of the East Side.
Even then he did not leave the trail, but followed until the big car drew up in front of the huge apartment house in which Alfred Atherton maintained his luxurious bachelor quarters.
As the leader of the kid-gloved crooks alighted from the car, Max Berne rattled past on his motor cycle.
He could not resist the temptation.
“Good night, Mr. Atherton,” he called out.
The society man wheeled about with thumping heart, but was too late to see more than the cyclist’s back.
“That will give him something to think about!” murmured the waiter. “I hope he hasn’t got a weak heart!”
“Great heavens!” ejaculated the startled Atherton. “Who was that, and how long has he been following us?”
But none of the others could say, and although they tried to shake off the uneasy feeling it gave them, they were not altogether successful.