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Kestner knew what the sound of that falling body meant. He groped his way forward in a sudden panic of apprehension. He ran back and forth in the open spaces, searching for the spot where that other man must surely have gone down.
Then he stopped short and crouched back, listening, warned by some whispering sixth sense, remembering that Lambert had long since proved himself a master of trickery. He stood there, pondering if that fall might not be the pretence of a wily enemy to gain time enough to reload a revolver, or at least drag himself silently off to more sheltered quarters. But he could be sure of nothing.
Kestner decided it was too late to take chances. That echoing tumult would only too quickly bring outside interference. And he wanted nothing to come between him and his quarry. Lambert belonged to him. He was there to make his capture, and he did not intend to be cheated out of his prisoner.
Then he stopped short, astounded by his own stupidity, his own absence of resource. Here he was groping about in utter darkness from sheer force of habit, when he had matches in his own pocket. There was no longer need for secrecy. What he wanted now was light. What he had to have was light.
He felt in his pocket for a match, made sure of the
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