as it ran past me. . . . See? There!" And he pointed a gaunt finger.
Bensington was too astonished for conversation. . . .
The lamps seemed an interminable time in coming. At last they appeared, first one unwinking luminous eye preceded by a swaying yellow glare, and then, winking now and then, and then shining out again, two others. About them came little figures with little voices, and then enormous shadows. This group made as it were a spot of inflammation upon the gigantic dreamland of moonshine.
"Flack," said the voices. "Flack."
An illuminating sentence floated up. "Locked himself in the attic."
Cossar was continually more wonderful. He produced great lumps of cotton wool and stuffed them in his ears—Bensington wondered why. Then he loaded his gun with a quarter charge of powder. Who else could have thought of that? Wonderland culminated with the disappearance of Cossar's twin realms of boot sole up the central hole.
Cossar was on all fours with two guns, one trailing on each side from a string under his chin, and his most trusted assistant, a little dark man with a grave face, was to go in stooping behind him, holding a lantern over his head. Everything had been made as sane and obvious and proper as a lunatic's dream. The wool, it seemed, was on account of the concussion of the rifle; the man had some, too. Obviously! So long as the rats turned tail on Cossar no harm could come to him, and directly they headed for him
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