‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. "What's that?" ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. ‘I have an arthritic complaint, which is why you find me retired from fashionable life. He fended these things off from him with the rump of his fourth piece of cake.
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