on the
chair, had deposited his other garments in layers upon it, had set his
candlestick and a box of matches on top of all. And everything had
always been there, just as he had placed things, every morning when he
opened his eyes. But--he had come to know Miss Pett's stealthiness by
that time, and ...

He put out a hand now and fingered the pile of garments which lay,
neatly folded, within a few inches of his head. It was all right, then,
of course, and his hand drew back--to the revolver, separated from his
cheek by no more than the thickness of the pillow. The touch of that
revolver made him begin speculating afresh. If Miss Pett or Christopher
had meddled with the waistcoat, the revolver, too, might have been
meddled with. Since he had entered the cottage, he had never examined
either waistcoat or revolver. Supposing the charges had been
drawn?--supposing he was defenceless, if a pinch came? He began to sweat
with fear at the mere thought, and in the darkness he fumbled with the
revolver in an effort to discover whether it was still loaded. And just
then came a sound--and Mallalieu grew chill with suspense.

It was a very small sound--so small that it might have been no more than
that caused by the scratch of the tiniest mouse in the wainscot. But in
that intense silence it was easily heard--and with it came the faint
glimmering of a light. The light widened--there was a little further
sound--and Mallalieu, peeping at things through his eyelashes became
aware that the door was open, that a tall, spare figure was outlined
between the bed and the light without. And in that light, outside the
door, well behind the thin form of Miss Pett, he saw Christopher Pett's
sharp face and the glint of his beady eyes.

Mallalieu was sharp enough of thought, and big man though he was, he had
always been quick of action. He knew what Miss Pett's objective was, and
he let her advance half-way across the room on her stealthy path to the
waistcoat. But silently as she came on with that cat-like tread,
Mallalieu had just as silently drawn the revolver from beneath his
pillow and turned its small muzzle on her. It had a highly polished
barrel, that revolver, and Miss Pett suddenly caught a tiny
scintillation of light on it--and she screamed. And as she screamed
Mallalieu fired, and the scream died down to a queer choking sound ...
and he fired again ... and where Christopher Pett's face had shown
itself a second before there was noth