Then, without warning,
the flying figure of a man leaped across the doorway into the security
of the opposite wall. It was done so quickly neither fired, but
Cavendish licked his parched lips with a dry tongue.
"I'll get the next one who tries that trick," he muttered, "It will be
easier than partridge shooting."
A minute--two passed, every nerve on edge; then a second flying form,
almost a blur in the gathering gloom, shot across the narrow opening.
The shotgun spoke, and the wildly leaping figure seemed to crumble to
the floor--its lower half had reached shelter, but head and shoulders
lay exposed, revealing grey hair and a white moustache. Cavendish
sprang erect, all caution forgotten.
"It's Mendez," he cried. "I got the arch-fiend of them----"
A rifle cracked and he went plunging back, his body striking the girl,
and crushing her to the floor beside him. There was no cry, no groan
of agony, yet he lay there motionless. She crept across and bent over
him, almost dumb with fear.
"You--you are shot?" she made herself speak.
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