"They're on the roof of the next house—though they've posted a sentry in the street, of course."
"But that second thump—?" the girl demanded.
"A bullet," he said, placing the bundle on the table and cutting the string that bound it: "they were on the qui-vive and fired when I showed myself beneath the skylight."
"But I heard no report," she objected.
"A Maxim silencer on the gun, I fancy," he explained, unwrapping the brick and smoothing out the newspaper. … "Glad you thought to put on your hat before you came down," he added, with an approving glance for the girl; "it won't be safe to go up to the studio again—of course."
His nonchalance was far less real than it seemed, but helped to steady one who was holding herself together with a struggle, on the verge of nervous collapse.
"But what are we to do now?" she stammered. "If they've surrounded the house—!"
"Don't worry: there's more than one way out," he responded, frowning at the newspaper; "I wouldn't have picked this place out, otherwise. Nor would Solon have rented it in the first instance had it lacked an emergency exit, in event of creditors. … Ah—thought so!"
"What—?"
"Troyon's is gone," he said, without looking up. "This is to-night's Presse. … 'Totally destroyed by a fire which started at six-thirty this morning and in less than half an hour had reduced the ancient structure to a heap of smoking ashes'! …" He ran his eye quickly down the column, selecting
