"Take care he doesn't shoot you," she said. If you can laugh in a whisper, Bill Thornton did it.
"I've got a revolver," he said; "don't you worry!"
Lucilla felt her way to the door, and she did go back to her own room, but only to get the poker. And she did this without rattling the fireirons. "I should make a good burglar myself," she thought.
She waited in the darkness by the stairhead and perceived the Mr. Thornton who was Bill creeping down, silent as Mercury. Then she followed with her poker, feeling a heroine.
She reached the drawing-room door in time to hear:
"That's right. Any firearms?"
"No," said a strange and husky voice.
"Any more of you?"
"No."
"Empty that bag. And don't rattle the stuff fit to wake the dead."
A faint rattling followed.
"Now turn out your pockets."
Fainter rattlings. Then: "What are you going to do with me, governor?"
"Kick you out!" said Thornton's voice. "If you take my advice you'll chuck this lay. You don't know your own silly business. A bare light! And the door left open! You deserve the stone jug."
"I know I do," said the man, "but this ain't the trade I was brought up to."
"What's your trade?"
"Sign-writer."
"Can't you get a job?"
"Oh yes," said the man, "course I can get a job. Jobs is going about waiting to be got, ain't they? Wish I was back in the trenches, I do. Or else out of it. I'd do myself in to-night if it wasn't for"
"Don't begin about the kids and the missus," said Thornton, "That's what you chap always do when you're caught.
