But the word was not _six_. The daughter moves aside, and yet the finger
points. "It's nowhere near six, father dear!" she says. "Not one o'clock
yet!" But still the finger points. And now a wave of clearer
articulation overcomes a sibilant that has been the worst enemy of
speech, and leaves the tongue free. "Wix!" That's the word.

"Got it!" exclaims the officer, and the woman with a shriek falls
insensible. He takes little notice of her, but whistles for his mate
below--a peculiar whistle. It brings the man who was keeping watch in
the lane. "Got him all right," says his principal. "Out here on the
tiles. That's your meaning, I take it, Mr. Hawkins?" The old man nods
repeatedly. "And he's took the key out with him and locked to the door.
That's it, is it?" More nods, and then the officer mounts the short
ladder and knocks hard upon the door. He speaks to the silence on the
other side. "You've been seen, Mr. Wix. It's a pity to spoil a good
lock. You've got the key. We can wait a bit. Don't hurry!"

Footsteps on the roof, and a shout from the garden below! He is seen
now--no doubt of it--whatever he was before. What is that they are
calling from the garden? "He's got a loose tile. Look out!"

"Don't give him a chance to aim with it," says Jacomb below to his chief
on the ladder. Who replies:--"He's bound to get half a chance. Keep your
eyes open!" A thing to be done, certainly, with that key sounding in the
lock.

The officer Cardwell only waited to hear it turn to throw his full
weight on the door, which opened outwards. He scarcely waited for the
back-click to show that the door, which had no hasp or clutch beyond the
key-service, was free on its hinges. Nevertheless, he was not so quick
but that the man beyond was quicker, springing back sharp on the turn of
his own hand. Cardwell stumbled as the door gave, unexpectedly easily,
and nearly fell his length on the leads.

Jacomb, on the second rung of the step-ladder, feels the wind of a
missile that all but touches his head. He does not look round to see
what it strikes, but he hears a cry; man or woman, or both. In front of
him is his principal, on his legs again, grasping the wrist of the right
hand that threw the tile, while his own is on its owner's throat.

"All right--all right!" says Mr. Wix. "You can stow it now. I could have
given you that tile under your left ear. But the right man's got the
benefit. You may just as well keep the snitchers for when I