"What the mischief are you about?" I cried angrily. "Can't you leave my
room alone?"
No answer; but the panels of the communicating door were bent inwards
until it seemed as though they must burst. I crossed the room to where my
portmanteau stood upon a luggage-rack, and took from it a small revolver.
When I stood up with it in my hand, the effect upon my visitor was almost
magical. He caught at my wrist and wrested it from my fingers. He grasped
it almost lovingly.
"I can at least die now like a man," he muttered. "Thank Heaven for
this!"
I sat down again upon the bed. I looked at the pillow and the unturned
coverlet doubtfully. They had obviously not been disturbed. I glanced at
my watch! it was barely two o'clock. I had not even been to bed. I could
not possibly be dreaming! The door was straining now almost to bursting.
I began to be annoyed.
"What the devil are you doing there?" I called out.
Again there was no answer, but a long crack had appeared on the panel. My
companion was standing up watching it. He grasped the revolver as one
accustomed to the use of such things.
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