eapt at the
sleeper.

Though a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed Hook stood in
darkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he discovered
an obstacle, the door of Slightly's tree. It did not entirely fill the
aperture, and he had been looking over it. Feeling for the catch, he
found to his fury that it was low down, beyond his reach. To his
disordered brain it seemed then that the irritating quality in Peter's
face and figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and flung
himself against it. Was his enemy to escape him after all.

But what was that? The red in his eye had caught sight of Peter's
medicine standing on a ledge within easy reach. He fathomed what it was
straightway, and immediately he knew that the sleeper was in his power.

Lest he should be taken alive, Hook always carried about his person a
dreadful drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that
had come into his possession. These he had boiled down into a yellow
liquid quite unknown to science, which was probably the most virulent
poison in existence.

Five drops of this he now added to Peter's cup. His hand shook, but it
was in exultation rather than in shame. As he did it he avoided glancing
at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve him; merely to avoid
spilling. Then one long gloating look he cast upon his victim, and
turning, wormed his way with difficulty up the tree. As he emerged at
the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole.
Donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around him,
holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the night, of
which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to himself stole
away through the trees.

Peter slept on. The light guttered and went out, leaving the tenement in
darkness; but still he slept. It must have been not less than ten
o'clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed, wakened
by he knew not what. It was a soft cautious tapping on the door of his
tree.

Soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister. Peter felt for
his dagger till his hand gripped it. Then he spoke.

'Who is that?'

For long there was no answer: then again the knock.

'Who are you?'

No answer.

He was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled. In two strides he reached
his door. Unlike Slightly's door it filled the aperture, so that he
could not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see hi