carry it but not one. There is no light at all—perfectly dark; but my revolver is under my pillow. I find it without noise and fire twice, quick! I see nothing—only the flash of the revolver. And there is no change—only the bold tearing of the paper. Again I fire—three times! Still nothing but the flash of my pistol—a red streak in the dark—nothing more; the great pound in the ears.
"But no longer the sound of paper; instead, the clicking of the levers of the box! He is opening the box—he knows how to open it. You are a brave man, Mr. Hereford—five times I have shot, not knowing then who he was; yet in the dark, swiftly, without seeing at all, he makes to click the levers which, clicking so, throw the box open. And I have but one shot in my revolver.
"I crawl upon the bed. I remember that
