then drew from his pocket an
instrument which I distinctly saw against the faint moonlight. Imagine a
hammer, one end of which had been beaten out into a longish tapering spike,
with a handle something longer than usual. He drew stealthily to the
window, and seemed to examine this hurriedly, and tested its strength with
a twist or two of his hand. And then he adjusted it very carefully in his
grasp, and made two or three little experimental picks with it in the air.

I remained perfectly still, with a terrible composure, crouched in my
hiding-place, my teeth clenched, and prepared to struggle like a tigress
for my life when discovered. I thought his next measure would be to light a
match. I saw a lantern, I fancied, on the window-sill. But this was not his
plan. He stole, in a groping way, which seemed strange to me, who could
distinguish objects in this light, to the side of my bed, the exact
position of which he evidently knew; he stooped over it. Madame was
breathing in the deep respiration of heavy sleep. Suddenly but softly he
laid, as it seemed to me, his left hand over her face, and nearly at the
same instant there came a scrunching blow; an unnatural shriek, beginning
small and swelling for two or three seconds into a yell such as are
imagined in haunted houses, accompanied by a convulsive sound, as of the
motion of running, and the arms drumming on the bed; and then another
blow--and with a horrid gasp he recoiled a step or two, and stood perfectly
still. I heard a horrible tremor quivering through the joints and curtains
of the bedstead--the convulsions of the murdered woman. It was a dreadful
sound, like the shaking of a tree and rustling of leaves. Then once more
he steps to the side of the bed, and I heard another of those horrid
blows--and silence--and another--and more silence--and the diabolical
surgery was ended. For a few seconds, I think, I was on the point of
fainting; but a gentle stir outside the door, close to my ear, startled me,
and proved that there had been a watcher posted outside. There was a little
tapping at the door.

'Who's that?' whispered Dudley, hoarsely.

'A friend,' answered a sweet voice.

And a key was introduced, the door quickly unlocked, and Uncle Silas
entered. I saw that frail, tall, white figure, the venerable silver locks
that resembled those upon the honoured head of John Wesley, and his thin
white hand, the back of which hung so close to my face that I feared to
breath