there was real anxiety
behind its summons. But I hardly heard it then. I was convinced that
Willie had been shot.

I must have gone noiselessly down the stairs, and at the foot I ran
directly into Willie. He was standing there, only a deeper shadow in
the blackness, and I had placed my hand over his, as it lay on the
newel-post, before he knew I was on the staircase. He wheeled sharply,
and I felt, to my surprise, that he held a revolver in his hand.

"Willie! What is it?" I said in a low tone.

"'Sh," he whispered. "Don't move--or speak."

We listened, standing together. There were undoubtedly sounds outside,
some one moving about, a hand on a window-catch, and finally not
particularly cautious steps at the front door. It swung open. I could
hear it creak as it moved slowly on its hinges.

I put a hand out to steady myself by the comfort of Willie's presence
before me, between me and that softly-opening door. But Willie was
moving forward, crouched down, I fancied, and the memory of that
revolver terrified me.

"Don't shoot him, Willie!" I almost shrieked.

"Shoot whom?" said Willie's cool voice, just inside the door.

I knew then, and I went sick all over. Somewhere in the hall between us
crouched the man I had taken for Willie, crouched with a revolver in
his right hand. The door was still open, I knew, and I could hear
Willie fumbling on the hall-stand for matches. I called out something
incoherent about not striking a light; but Willie, whistling softly to
show how cool he was, struck a match. It was followed instantly by a
report, and I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Willie was standing unhurt, staring over the burning
match at the door, which was closed, and I knew that the report had been
but the bang of the heavy door.

"What in blazes slammed that door?" he said.

"The burglar, or whatever he is," I said, my voice trembling in spite
of me. "He was here, in front of me. I laid my hand on his. He had a
revolver in it. When you opened the door, he slipped out past you."

Willie muttered something, and went toward the door. A moment later I
was alone again, and the telephone was ringing. I felt my way back
along the hall. I touched the cat, which had been sleeping on the
telephone-stand. He merely turned over.

I have tried, in living that night over again, to record things as they
impressed me. For, after all, this is a narrative of motive rather than
of incidents, of emotions as against dee