ght, on one object. A dim, fine-drawn but
uneven line of shadowy light had grown out of the darkness to his now
accustomed eyes. It was vague, so vague that it required the greatest
concentration to detect. But he recognized it for what it was, and a
savage delight possessed him as he observed that there were breaks in
its continuity. The line was waist high, and lateral, and he
interpreted it to suit himself.

He raised his gun and took steady aim at one of the breaks. His shot
was deliberate, careful, since the sight of his weapon, even the weapon
itself, remained invisible in the dark. He fired, and dropped himself
prone behind his barrier.

A bitter curse followed by a groan of pain was the answer to his shot.
Then, where that break in the shadowy line of light had been, now the
line was unbroken.

A fierce glee permeated him. The curse, the moan had been music to
him. But it only required a second before he had the enemy's retort.

It came with a fusillade. And every shot seemed to find practically
the same spot on the wall. He knew that the flash of his gun had been
the target. He knew he had only escaped by a fraction of time.

His shoulder stung him. But his will, his savage yearning for the
continuance of the fight, left him disregarding. There was more to
come, and he knew it. Nor did he care how much. The blood was hot in
his brain. No pain, nothing mattered. Again he searched along that
lateral line of light.

He was reaching out far beyond his retreat. He had stealthily crawled
to the left of the table. Again his weapon was raised against another
break in that telltale line of light, this time at a point where the
angle of the building must be. A moment passed while he judged his
aim. It was by no means easy. Instinct was his only guide. That
instinct which belongs to the man accustomed to the constant use of a
revolver.

His shot rang out. Again came a cry, inarticulate, fierce. Then
followed the sound of a falling body. Then he let loose a second shot.
But even as it sped he had his answer. Four tongues of flame leaped
out at him in the darkness, and four bullets smote viciously into the
wood behind him.

His second shot had cost him a sharp penalty. The flesh of his forearm
had been ripped by one of those four bullets and he felt the trickle of
warm blood over the unscored flesh.

He crouched behind his barrier. The joy of battle for the highest
stakes for which a