HOUSE

Until that moment of the woman's shot, what with the failure of P.
Sybarite's weapon to fire and the strange, muted coughing of the
assassin's, an atmosphere of veritable decorum, nothing less, had
seemed to mark the triangular duel, lending it something of the
fantastic quality of a nightmare: an effect to which the discovery of
a marauder, where P. Sybarite had expected to find nobody, added
measurably....

But now, temporarily blinded by that vicious bright blade of flame
stabbing the gloom a hand's breadth from his eyes, and deafened by the
crash of the explosion not two feet from his ear-drums, he quickened
to the circumstances with much of the confusion of a man awakened by a
thunder-clap from evil dreams to realities yet more grim.

Of a sudden he understood that murder had been attempted in his
presence and knowledge: a stark and hideous fact, jarring upon the
semi-humorous indulgence with which hitherto he had been inclined to
regard the unfolding of this night of _outre_ adventure. Twice the man
had shot to kill with that singular weapon of silent deadliness--and
both times had missed his mark by the barest margin....

At once, like a demon of exceptional malignity, a breathless and
overpowering rage possessed P. Sybarite. Without the least hesitation
he stretched forth a hand, snatched the pistol from the grasp of the
woman--who seemed to relinquish it more through surprise than
willingly--threw himself halfway down the stairs, and took a hasty
pot-shot at the man--almost invisible in the darkness as he rounded
the turn of the next flight.

Missing, P. Sybarite flung on recklessly. As he gained the lower
floor, the hall lights flashed up, switched on from the upper landing
by the woman of the house. Thus aided, he caught another glimpse of
his prey midway down the next flight, and checked to take a second
shot.

Again he missed; and as the bullet buried itself in splintering
wainscoting, a cry of almost childish petulence escaped him. With but
one thought, he hurled on, swung round to the head of the stairs, saw
his man at the bottom, pulled up to aim, and....

Beneath him a small rug slipped on polished parquetry of the landing.
P. Sybarite's heels went up and his head down with a sickening thump.
He heard his pistol explode once more, and again visioned a reeling
firmament fugitively coruscant with strange constellations.

Then--bounding up with uncommon resiliency--he saw the street doo