But no shots and no sound of a scuffle were heard. Robertson returned to say that he had investigated every nook and cranny that a man might have hidden in, and found no trace of any one having entered the house anywhere.

The little gathering stared about with questioning, bewildered eyes, and no one felt any happier for the news. The fact remained that a shot had been fired by a mysterious being who had apparently vanished into air. For what purpose had that shot been fired? At what? At whom?

"I can't make it out," said Robertson. "There seems no sense in a fellow coming and letting off fireworks in the middle of the night for nothing."

"Perhaps it is a trick of some sort," suggested Mrs. Orban; "some one trying to frighten us. But I don't see that that is possible."

"Nor I," said Robertson. "People aren't in the habit of playing practical jokes without some purpose in them hereabouts. All the same, it doesn't seem much good all of you staying up like this. If you'll just get back to your beds, I'll watch for the rest of the night. It may be a better way of trapping a chap, if he hasn't got clean away by now. That is the most likely thing, of course--his firearm probably went off inadvertently as he was coming round the veranda, and he knew he had done for himself, so made tracks at once. He might come back as soon as he thought the house was quiet again, but I don't expect him."

No one felt much inclined to take Robertson's practical advice. At the same time it seemed foolish to stay up and exhaust themselves for nothing, and Mrs. Orban agreed that every one should go to bed.

Eustace went very reluctantly. He would have liked to stay up and share Robertson's watch like a man; it seemed so childish to be sent to bed after taking part in such an excitement. He wondered what Nesta would have thought of it had she been there.

"Goodness, wouldn't she have been scared!" he reflected. "I do wonder what she would have done."

At least there would be plenty to tell her when she came home. She might be having a jolly time; but Eustace guessed, when it was all over, she would be disappointed at having been out of such adventures as these. There was a sort of glow about the realization that they were such very real adventures--experiences that did not come every day and to every one. The only stupid part about it was having to go to bed.

Mrs. Orban felt no glow in her realization of the situation. She longed for her husband, and wondered how she was going to bear his absence much longer. If this sort of thing were to go on she felt that it would break her nerve entirely.

Having kissed Eustace and sent him away, she felt too restless to get into bed. Sleep she knew would be impossible; and taking a book, she was just sitting down with the set purpose of making herself read awhile, in order to quiet her mind, when a sharp cry reached her from the next room.

"Mother! mother!" Eustace cried, "come here--quick!"

CHAPTER VI.

BOB'S VERDICT.

She found Eustace standing beside his bed staring at it in utter bewilderment.

"My dearest boy, what is it?" she asked.

"Why, look at that!" Eustace exclaimed, pointing down at the coverlet.

From about the centre of the bed on the right side, down almost to the foot, was a long brown streak like a burn: the coverlet was cut and charred.

Mrs. Orban stared at it in astonishment

"What can it be?" she said.

"I can't think," Eustace replied.

"You had better fetch Robertson," Mrs. Orban said. "There is something very odd about this."

"Don't you mind being left alone, mother?" Eustace asked, looking round anxiously, as if he thought an explanation of the mystery might jump from under a bed or out of a cupboard.

"Of course not, dear," Mrs. Orban replied gravely.

It amused her even in her anxiety that this slender sc.r.a.p of fourteen should a.s.sume such an air of protection, but it touched her also, and she would not for worlds have let him fancy she could smile at him.

Robertson hurried to the spot immediately, and when he saw the condition of the coverlet he looked utterly nonplussed.

"Well, this is a queer state of things," he said, rubbing his head meditatively. "I never saw anything to equal it."

Further examination proved that not only was the coverlet burnt right through, but the under clothes were scorched and crumbled like tinder at a touch.

"It looks like the track of a shot," Robertson said; "but how could it come there?"

"I don't know," Eustace said, "unless some one was kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed and tried to shoot me without raising his hand. The shot sounded most awfully close."

Robertson took a quick survey of the situation, ending with an examination of the wall at the head of the bed.

"No," he said, "that couldn't be. The bullet would have gone into the pillow or lodged in the wall, but there isn't a sign of it.

Seems to me it went the other way by the mark. It is broadest in the middle of the bed."

He followed the line with his eye, then glanced across the room.

"Why," he exclaimed, going over to the opposite wall, "here is the mark of the bullet--here is the bullet itself, deep in the wood.

That shot went off from the middle of your bed, lad."

Eustace looked incredulous, Mrs. Orban horrified. It was awful to think that the boy had been in such danger. The man who had fired that first alarming shot was close to him, perhaps bending over him, when inadvertently the weapon had gone off! The mother could picture it only too vividly, and she felt sick at the thought of the ghastly peril.

"But what happened to the man?" questioned Eustace. "I was awake in a minute, and must have seen him."

"Not if he ducked under the bed," suggested Mrs. Orban. "He must have been there when you came to me, and made his escape the instant you were out of the way."

"Much more likely if he had knocked the youngster on the head to silence him," argued Robertson, as he stood toying with Mr. Orban's revolver. "I don't think that story will wash."

Quite suddenly the man threw back his head and laughed aloud.

"I have it," he said. "Eustace, you young rascal, what a scare you have given us!"

"I!" exclaimed Eustace, with a touch of indignation in his tone.

"Yes, you," was the reply. "Why, you fired that first shot yourself; I'll bet you anything you did. You only shot once at the dingo--there are two chambers empty in this revolver. Come, own up; where was the revolver when you went to sleep?"

Eustace flushed crimson as the realization flooded his mind.

"It was in my hand when I jumped out of bed," he said. "I--I do believe I went to sleep holding it. I dropped off suddenly."

He remembered how inexplicably queer and shaken he had felt when he awoke. Now he came to think of it, he had been strangely jarred. A mere sound could scarcely have accounted for the feeling.

"Well, that clears the whole mystery, then," said Robertson. "There is no one lurking about the house, and there hasn't been anything to be frightened about--except that you might have shot your own foot through, and lamed yourself for life."

"He might have killed himself," said Mrs. Orban seriously. "It was a terribly dangerous thing to do."