g the key in my pocket.

I found myself at the top of a flight of steep stone stairs. An oil lamp
burnt dimly in the bracket. I took it down and held it in my hand; and I
stood and listened.

"What in the devil can it be?" I heard a voice say.

It came from behind a door that faced me at the bottom of the stairs.

And another answered:

"Shall we kill him?"

I strained to hear the answer, and could have sobbed with relief when
Detchard's voice came grating and cold:

"Wait a bit. There'll be trouble if we strike too soon."

There was a moment's silence. Then I heard the bolt of the door
cautiously drawn back. Instantly I put out the light I held, replacing
the lamp in the bracket.

"It's dark--the lamp's out. Have you a light?" said the other
voice--Bersonin's.

No doubt they had a light, but they should not use it. It was come to
the crisis now, and I rushed down the steps and flung myself against the
door. Bersonin had unbolted it and it gave way before me. The Belgian
stood there sword in hand, and Detchard was sitting on a couch at the
side of the room. In astonishment at seeing me, Bersonin recoiled;
Detchard jumped to his sword. I rushed madly at the Belgian: he gave
way before me, and I drove him up against the wall. He was no swordsman,
though he fought bravely, and in a moment he lay on the floor before
me. I turned--Detchard was not there. Faithful to his orders, he had
not risked a fight with me, but had rushed straight to the door of the
King's room, opened it and slammed it behind him. Even now he was at his
work inside.

And surely he would have killed the King, and perhaps me also, had it
not been for one devoted man who gave his life for the King. For when I
forced the door, the sight I saw was this: the King stood in the corner
of the room: broken by his sickness, he could do nothing; his fettered
hands moved uselessly up and down, and he was laughing horribly in
half-mad delirium. Detchard and the doctor were together in the middle
of the room; and the doctor had flung himself on the murderer, pinning
his hands to his sides for an instant. Then Detchard wrenched himself
free from the feeble grip, and, as I entered, drove his sword through
the hapless man. Then he turned on me, crying:

"At last!"

We were sword to sword. By blessed chance, neither he nor Bersonin had
been wearing their revolvers. I found them afterwards, ready loaded,
on the mantelpiece of the outer room: it was hard b