"We went through with it all right," replied Marrophat defensively, "but as usual they were too quick for us. They jumped out and dropped off the trestle before our engine hit the caboose. We smashed that to kindling wood, but they got away. It was dark and no telling which way they had run. We did our best," Marrophat continued. "We can't be blamed if something—somehow—always happens to tip the others off."
The girl swung to face him with blazing eyes. "Just what does that mean?" she demanded in a dangerous voice. But her eyes just then travelled past the person of Mr. Marrophat to the doorway of the drawing-room, and found it framing a stranger, a man of such huge bulk that his head must bow to pass beneath the lintel, while his shoulders all but touched both jambs. A heavy Colt's .45 hung level in his either hand.
"Excuse me, friends," he offered in a lazy, semi-humorous drawl. "It pains me considerable to butt in on this happy family gathering, but business is business, and I got to ask you all to please put up your hands!"
There was little to choose between the alacrity with which nine hands were elevated; but one, the right hand of the invalid, remained motionless. And this the intruder indicated with a significant jerk of one revolver.
