nother minute to realize that I was looking into the barrel of a
revolver. It occurred to me that I had never seen a more villainous face
than that of the man who held it--which shows my state of mind--and that
my position was the reverse of comfortable. Then the man behind the gun
spoke.

"What did you do with that bag?" he demanded, and I felt his knee on my
chest.

"What bag?" I inquired feebly. My head was jumping, and the candle was a
volcanic eruption of sparks and smoke.

"Don't be a fool," the gentleman with the revolver persisted. "If I
don't get that bag within five minutes, I'll fill you as full of holes
as a cheese."

"I haven't seen any bag," I said stupidly. "What sort of bag?" I heard
my own voice, drunk from the shock. "Paper bag, laundry bag--"

"You've hidden it in the house," he said, bringing the revolver a little
closer with every word. My senses came back with a jerk and I struggled
to free myself.

"Go in and look," I responded. "Let me up from here, and I'll take you
in myself."

The man's face was a study in amazement and anger.

"You'll take me in! You!" He got up without changing the menacing
position of the gun. "You walk in there--here, carry the candle--and
take me to that bag. Quick, do you hear?"

I was too bewildered to struggle. I got up dizzily, but when I tried to
stoop for the candle I almost fell on it. My head cleared after a
moment, and when I had picked up the candle I had a good chance to look
at my assailant. He was staring at me, too. He was a young fellow, well
dressed, and haggard beyond belief.

"I don't know anything about a bag," I persisted, "but if you will give
me your word there was nothing in it belonging to this house, I will
take you in and let you look for it."

The next moment he had lowered the revolver and clutched my arm.

"Who in the devil's name _are_ you?" he asked wildly.

I think the thing dawned on us both at the same moment.

"My name is Knox," I said coolly, feeling for my handkerchief--my head
was bleeding from a cut over the ear--"John Knox."

"Knox!" Instead of showing relief; his manner showed greater
consternation than ever. He snatched the candle from me and, holding it
up, searched my face. "Then--good God--where is my traveling-bag?"

"I have something in my head where you hit me," I said. "Perhaps that is
it."

But my sarcasm was lost on him.

"I am Harry Wardrop," he said, "and I have been robbed, Mr. Knox. I was
tryin