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She must have fought her fears nearly an hour before she heard

the faintest of sounds outside. Her hand leaped to the revolver.

She sat motionless, listening, with nerves taut. It came again

presently, a deadened footfall, close to the door. Then, after an

eternity, the latch clicked softly. Some one, with infinite care,

was trying to discover whether the door was locked.

His next move she anticipated. Her eyes fastened on the window,

while she waited breathlessly. Her heart was stammering

furiously. Moments passed, in which she had to set her teeth to

keep from screaming aloud. The revolver was shaking so that she

had to steady the barrel with her left hand. A shadow crossed one

pane, the shadow of a head in profile, and pushed itself forward

till shoulders, arm, and poised revolver covered the lower sash.

Very, very slowly the head itself crept into sight.