of melted candle grease drip upon one corner. In this he held the
candle until it hardened in place. Then he went to work with the
businesslike swiftness of skill and experience.

He laid the shotgun on the stove and untwisted the baling wire which
held the stovepipe, giving a grunt of satisfaction when he found the
wire was longer than he had anticipated. He stooped and gathered some
kindling that was under the stove, singled out two or three sticks that
suited him, and then he laid them across the top of the stove and rested
the barrel of the shotgun upon them. After all was complete, he stepped
back against the door and squinted, gauging the elevation. It was to his
satisfaction. With supple wrist and quick movements he uncoiled the
small cotton rope he had brought with him and took two turns around the
trigger of the shotgun. The rest of the rope he passed around a rod in
the foot of the bed, which gave a direct back pull on the trigger, and
thence he carried it over the upper hinge of the door, which opened
inward, and finally down to the knob and back again to the foot of the
bed, where he secured it.

All was executed without a superfluous movement, and a panther could not
have been more noiseless. But the man was breathing heavily when he had
finished, as hard as though he had been exercising violently. He stepped
to the washstand to blow out the candle, but before he did so he gave a
final rapid survey of his work. His eyes glittered with sinister
satisfaction. Evidently it suited him. He held his numbed fingers over
the flame of the candle to warm them before he extinguished it.

Reaching for the axe, he pried the window from its casing and set it
quietly against the wall. He leaned the axe beside it and cursed under
his breath when he tore a button from his mackinaw as he squeezed
through the narrow opening. He dropped lightly to the ground and,
crouching, ran for the alley. Where it crossed Main Street he stopped
and listened, then peered around the corner of the White Hand Laundry.
The street was still empty.

While he stood, the sound of laughter came faintly from the Opera House.
His heart was pounding under his mackinaw. On the other side of the
street red and violet lights were shining through the frosted windows of
"Doc" Fussel's drug store. They looked warm and alluring, and he
hesitated.

A whinny pierced the stillness. It was his horse pawing with cold and
impatience behind the signboard. He l