He heard the shot, the crashing glass, the strike of the bullet behind him before he felt the pain--before he reeled back toward the wall.

His heel caught in a rug and he fell.

He knew that he was not badly hurt, but he crouched low, and with his right hand drew his automatic and levelled it at the window.
Never in his life had his blood leaped more quickly through his body than it did now.

It was not merely excitement--the knowledge that he had been close to death, and had escaped.

From out of the darkness Jean Croisset had shot at him like a coward.