Out into the moonshine sauntered a slight figure, all in white, yachting cap on head, lighted cigarette in hand.
The man came out from the black vine-screen, and, for a second, stood there, as if glancing carelessly about him.
Milo Standish shouted again, at the top of his lungs.

And this time, Claire's voice, like a silver bugle, rang out with his in that cry of warning.
But, before the dual shout was fairly launched, three dark bodies had sprung forward and hurled themselves on the unsuspecting victim.

There was a tragically brief struggle.
Then, all four were on the ground, the vainly-battling white body underneath.

And there was a gruesome sound as of angry beasts worrying their meat.
Carried out of his own dread, by the spectacle, Milo Standish vaulted over the sill and out onto the veranda.

But there he came to a halt.