Dickon, whose wits were nimbler than his legs, understood
what he was to do and slipped away, Desmond returning to his coign of
vantage as noiselessly as he came.
He was just in time to see that a heavy object, apparently a box, was
being lowered from the library window on to the ladder. Sliding slowly
down, it came to the hands of the waiting man; immediately afterwards the
rope by which it had been suspended was dropped from above, and the dark
figure of a man mounted the sill.
He already had one leg over, preparing to descend, when Desmond, with a
sudden rush, dashed through the shrubs and sprang across the path. The
confederate was stooping over the booty; his back was towards the
shrubbery; at the snapping of twigs and the crunching of the gravel he
straightened himself and turned. Before he was aware of what was
happening, Desmond caught at the ladder by the lowest rung, and jerked it
violently outwards so that its top fell several feet below the
windowsill, resting on the wall out of reach of the man above.
Desmond heard a smothered exclamation break from the fellow, but he could
pay no further attention to him, for, as he rose from stooping over the
ladder, he was set upon by a burly form. He dodged behind the ladder. The
man sprang after him, blindly, clumsily, and tripped over the box. But he
was up in a moment, and, reckless of the consequences of raising an
alarm, was fumbling for a pistol, when there fell upon his ears a shout,
the tramp of hurrying feet, and the sound of another window being thrown
open.
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