uelein. There were letters to write
and packing yet to do. He set to work gaily.

At last everything was done, and he was stooping over a bag to fasten
it. The candle was in the window. Suddenly a hand--a long, skinny
hand--reached softly out from behind a large press, and swallowed and
crushed out the flame. Detricand raised his head quickly, astonished.
There was no wind blowing--the candle had not even flickered when
burning. But then, again, he had not heard a sound; perhaps that was
because his foot was scraping the floor at the moment the light went
out. He looked out of the window, but there was only starlight, and he
could not see distinctly. Turning round he went to the door of the outer
hall-way, opened it, and stepped into the garden. As he did so, a
figure slipped from behind the press in the bedroom, swiftly raised the
trap-door in the flooring, then, shadowed by the door leading into the
hall-way, waited for him.

Presently his footstep was heard. He entered the hall, stood in the
doorway of the bedroom for a moment, while he searched in his pockets
for a light, then stepped inside.

Suddenly his attention was arrested. There was the sound of flowing
water beneath his feet. This could always be heard in his room, but now
how loud it was! Realising that the trap-door must be open, he listened
for a second and was instantly conscious of some one in the room. He
made a step towards the door, but it suddenly closed softly. He moved
swiftly to the window, for the presence was near the door.

What did it mean? Who was it? Was there one, or more? Was murder
intended? The silence, the weirdness, stopped his tongue--besides, what
was the good of crying out? Whatever was to happen would happen at once.
He struck a light, and held it up. As he did so some one or something
rushed at him. What a fool he had been--the light had revealed his
position! But at the same moment came the instinct to throw himself
to one side; which he did as the rush came. In that one flash he had
seen--a man's white beard.

Next instant there was a sharp sting in his right shoulder. The knife
had missed his breast--the sudden swerving had saved him. Even as it
struck, he threw himself on his assailant. Then came a struggle. The
long fingers of the man with the white beard clove to the knife like
a dead soldier's to the handle of a sword. Twice Detricand's hand
was gashed slightly, and then he pinioned the wrist of his enemy, and
trippe