The clock struck one, then two, and the long hand was half-way around its face again before any other sound but the musical chime broke the stillness.

Then a succession of strangled moans began to penetrate the consciousness of even the soundest sleeper.
Whoever it was that was trying to call for help was evidently terrified, and the terror of the cries sent a cold chill through every one who heard them.
"It's burglars," shrieked Lloyd, sitting up in bed.

"Papa Jack! They're in Joyce's room! They're trying to strangle her! Papa Jack!" Lights glimmered in every room, and doors flew open along the hall.

A dishevelled little group in bath-robes and pajamas rushed out, Mr.
Sherman with a revolver, Miles Bradford with a heavy Indian club, and Phil with his walking-stick with the electric battery in its head.

He flashed it like a search-light up and down the hall.
At the first moan, Joyce had wakened, and realizing that it came from Mary's corner of the room, began to grope on the table beside her bed for matches.