nox was still too helpless to raise a gun to a shooting position.
He had observed that the mountaineer spent his time either on the fireplace divan or on his own bed. Neither of these places was available to the rear windows of the house. So, very wisely, he made his attack from the rear.
He came stealing across the snow,—a musher of the first degree. Very silently and swiftly he slipped off his snowshoes at the door. The door itself was unlocked, just as he had supposed. In an instant more he was tiptoeing, a dark, silent figure, through the corridors of the house. He held his rifle ready in his hands.
He peered into Lennox's bedroom first. The room was unoccupied. Then the floor of the corridor creaked beneath his step; and he knew nothing further was to be gained by waiting. If Lennox suspected his presence, he might be waiting with aimed rifle as he opened the door of the living room.
He glided faster. He halted once more,—a moment at the living-room door to see if Lennox had been disturbed. He was lying still, however, so Cranston pushed through.
Lennox glanced up from his magazine to find that unmistakable thing, the barrel of a
