his face, and his
bloodshot eyes and disfigured features giving him the look rather of a
wild beast than of a man. Shaking his finger at Grosket, he said, 'Keep
away from me to day, I say. There's an evil spell over me. Come to-morrow,
but don't push me to-day, or God knows what you may drive me to do. There,
there--go.'

Still Grosket stirred not, but with a curling lip and an eye as bright as
his own, and voice so fearfully quiet and yet stern that at another time
it might have quelled even the strong spirit of the robber, he said 'Enoch
Grosket never goes until his object is attained.'

'Then you won't go?' demanded Jones.

'No!'

Jones made a hasty step toward him, with his teeth set and his eyes
burning like coals of fire; but whatever may have been his purpose, and
from the expression of his face, there was little doubt but that it was a
hostile one, he was diverted from it by hearing a hand on the latch of the
door and a voice from without demanding admittance.

'It is Rust,' exclaimed Grosket, in a sharp whisper. He touched the
burglar on the shoulder and said in the same tone, 'I'm going in _there_.'
He pointed to a closet in a dark part of the room, nearly concealed by the
wainscotting. Let him in, and betray me if you dare!'

'You seem to know our holes well,' muttered Jones. 'You've been here
afore.' Grosket made no reply, but hurried across the room and secreted
himself in the closet, which evidently had been constructed as a place of
concealment, either for the tenants of the room themselves, or for
whatever else it might not suit their fancy to have too closely examined.

Jones stared after him, apparently forgetting the applicant for admission,
until a renewed and very violent knocking recalled his attention to it. He
then went to the door, drew back the bolt, and walked to his seat, without
even glancing to see who came in, or whom the person was who followed so
closely at his heels. Nor did he look around until he felt his arm roughly
grasped, and a sharp stern voice hissing in his ear:

'So, so! a fine night's work you've made of it. Tim Craig is dead and the
whole city is already ringing with the news; and _you_, you're a
murderer!'

Jones started from his seat with the sudden spasmodic bound of one who has
received a mortal thrust. He stared wildly at the sharp thin face which
had almost touched his, and then sat down and said:

'Don't talk to me so, Mr. Rust; I can't bear it.'

'Ho, h