The scene in the drawing-room
represented the ideal of domestic
comfort. The fire of wood and
coal mixed burned brightly; the
lamps shed a soft glow of light;
the solid shutters and the thick
red curtains kept the cold night
air on the outer side of two
long windows, which opened on
the back garden. Snug arm-chairs
were placed in every part of
the room. In one of them Sir
Joseph reclined, fast asleep;
in another, Miss Lavinia sat
knitting; a third chair, apart
from the rest, near a round table
in one corner of the room, was
occupied by Natalie. Her head
was resting on her hand, an unread
book lay open on her lap. She
looked pale and harassed; anxiety
and suspense had worn her down
to the shadow of her former self.
On entering the room, Turlington
purposely closed the door with
a bang. Natalie started. Miss
Lavinia looked up reproachfully.
The object was achieved--Sir
Joseph was roused from his sleep.
"If you are going to the vicar's
to-night. Graybrooke," said Turlington, "it's
time you were off, isn't it?"
Sir Joseph
rubbed his eyes, and looked
at the clock on the
mantel-piece. "Yes, yes, Richard," he
answered, drowsily, "I suppose
I must go. Where is my hat?"
His sister
and his daughter both joined
in trying to persuade
him to send an excuse instead
of groping his way to the vicarage
in the dark. Sir Joseph hesitated,
as usual. He and the vicar had
run up a sudden friendship, on
the strength of their common
enthusiasm for the old-fashioned
game of backgammon. Victorious
over his opponent on the previous
evening at Turlington's house,
Sir Joseph had promised to pass
that evening at the vicarage,
and give the vicar his revenge.
Observing his indecision, Turlington
cunningly irritated him by affecting
to believe that he was really
unwilling to venture out in the
dark. "I'll see you safe across
the churchyard," he said; "and
the vicar's servant will see
you safe back." The tone in which
he spoke instantly roused Sir
Joseph. "I am not in my second
childhood yet, Richard," he replied,
testily. "I can find my way by
myself." He kissed his daughter
on the forehead. "No fear, Natalie.
I shall be back in time for the
mulled claret. No, Richard, I
won't trouble you." He kissed
his hand to his sister and went
out into the hall for his hat:
Turlington following him with
a rough apology, and asking as
a favor to be permitted to accompany
him part of the way only. The
ladies, left behind in the drawing-room,
heard the apology accepted by
kind-hearted Sir Joseph. The
two went out together.
"Have you noticed Richard since
his return?" asked Miss Lavinia. "I
fancy he must have heard bad
news in London. He looks as if
he had something on his mind."
"I haven't
remarked it, aunt."
For the time, no more was said.
Miss Lavinia went monotonously
on with her knitting. Natalie
pursued her own anxious thoughts
over the unread pages of the
book in her lap. Suddenly the
deep silence out of doors and
in was broken by a shrill whistle,
sounding from the direction of
the church-yard. Natalie started
with a faint cry of alarm. Miss
Lavinia looked up from her knitting.
"My dear child,
your nerves must be sadly out
of order. What
is there to be frightened at?"
"I am not very
well, aunt. It is so still
here at night,
the slightest noises startle
me."
There was another interval
of silence. It was past nine
o'clock when they heard the back
door opened and closed again.
Turlington came hurriedly into
the drawing-room, as if he had
some reason for wishing to rejoin
the ladies as soon as possible.
To the surprise of both of them,
he sat down abruptly in the corner,
with his face to the wall, and
took up the newspaper, without
casting a look at them or uttering
a word.
"Is Joseph safe at the vicarage?" asked
Miss Lavinia.
"All right." He
gave the answer in a short,
surly tone, still
without looking round.
Miss Lavinia
tried him again. "Did
you hear a whistle while you
were out? It quite startled Natalie
in the stillness of this place."
He turned half-way
round. "My
shepherd, I suppose," he said
after a pause--"whistling for
his dog." He turned back again
and immersed himself in his newspaper.
Miss Lavinia
beckoned to her niece and pointed
significantly
to Turlington. After one reluctant
look at him, Natalie laid her
head wearily on her aunt's shoulder. "Sleepy,
my dear?" whispered the old lady. "Uneasy,
aunt--I don't know why," Natalie
whispered back. "I would give
the world to be in London, and
to hear the carriages going by,
and the people talking in the
street."
Turlington
suddenly dropped his newspaper. "What's the secret
between you two?" he called out
roughly. "What are you whispering
about?"
"We wish not to disturb you
over your reading, that is all," said
Miss Lavinia, coldly. "Has anything
happened to vex you, Richard?"
"What the devil
makes you think that?"
The old lady
was offended, and showed it
by saying nothing
more. Natalie nestled closer
to her aunt. One after another
the clock ticked off the minutes
with painful distinctness in
the stillness of the room. Turlington
suddenly threw aside the newspaper
and left his corner. "Let's be
good friends!" he burst out,
with a clumsy assumption of gayety. "This
isn't keeping Christmas-eve.
Let's talk and be sociable. Dearest
Natalie!" He threw his arm roughly
round Natalie, and drew her by
main force away from her aunt.
She turned deadly pale, and struggled
to release herself. "I am suffering--I
am ill--let me go!" He was deaf
to her entreaties. "What! your
husband that is to be, treated
in this way? Mustn't I have a
kiss?--I will!" He held her closer
with one hand, and, seizing her
head with the other, tried to
turn her lips to him. She resisted
with the inbred nervous strength
which the weakest woman living
has in reserve when she is outraged.
Half indignant, half terrified,
at Turlington's roughness, Miss
Lavinia rose to interfere. In
a moment more he would have had
two women to overpower instead
of one, when a noise outside
the window suddenly suspended
the ignoble struggle.
There was a sound of footsteps
on the gravel-walk which ran
between the house wall and the
garden lawn. It was followed
by a tap--a single faint tap,
no more--on one of the panes
of glass.
They all three stood still.
For a moment more nothing was
audible. Then there was a heavy
shock, as of something falling
outside. Then a groan, then another
interval of silence--a long silence,
interrupted no more.
Turlington's
arm dropped from Natalie. She
drew back to her
aunt. Looking at him instinctively,
in the natural expectation that
he would take the lead in penetrating
the mystery of what had happened
outside the window, the two women
were thunderstruck to see that
he was, to all appearance, even
more startled and more helpless
than they were. "Richard," said
Miss Lavinia, pointing to the
window, "there is something wrong
out there. See what it is." He
stood motionless, as if he had
not heard her, his eyes fixed
on the window, his face livid
with terror.
The silence outside was broken
once more; this time by a call
for help.
A cry of horror burst from
Natalie. The voice outside--rising
wildly, then suddenly dying away
again--was not entirely strange
to _her_ ears. She tore aside
the curtain. With voice and hand
she roused her aunt to help her.
The two lifted the heavy bar
from its socket; they opened
the shutters and the window.
The cheerful light of the room
flowed out over the body of a
prostrate man, lying on his face.
They turned the man over. Natalie
lifted his head.
Her father!
His face was bedabbled with
blood. A wound, a frightful wound,
was visible on the side of his
bare head, high above the ear.
He looked at her, his eyes recognized
her, before he fainted again
in her arms. His hands and his
clothes were covered with earth
stains. He must have traversed
some distance; in that dreadful
condition he must have faltered
and fallen more than once before
he reached the house. His sister
wiped the blood from his face.
His daughter called on him frantically
to forgive her before he died--the
harmless, gentle, kind-hearted
father, who had never said a
hard word to her! The father
whom she had deceived!
The terrified servants hurried
into the room. Their appearance
roused their master from the
extraordinary stupor that had
seized him. He was at the window
before the footman could get
there. The two lifted Sir Joseph
into the room, and laid him on
the sofa. Natalie knelt by him,
supporting his head. Miss Lavinia
stanched the flowing blood with
her handkerchief. The women-servants
brought linen and cold water.
The man hurried away for the
doctor, who lived on the other
side of the village. Left alone
again with Turlington, Natalie
noticed that his eyes were fixed
in immovable scrutiny on her
father's head. He never said
a word. He looked, looked, looked
at the wound.
The doctor
arrived. Before either the
daughter or the sister
of the injured man could put
the question, Turlington put
it--"Will he live or die?"
The doctor's careful finger
probed the wound.
"Make your
minds easy. A little lower
down, or in front, the
blow might have been serious.
As it is, there is no harm done.
Keep him quiet, and he will be
all right again in two or three
days."
Hearing those welcome words,
Natalie and her aunt sank on
their knees in silent gratitude.
After dressing the wound, the
doctor looked round for the master
of the house. Turlington, who
had been so breathlessly eager
but a few minutes since, seemed
to have lost all interest in
the case now. He stood apart,
at the window, looking out toward
the church-yard, thinking. The
questions which it was the doctor's
duty to ask were answered by
the ladies. The servants assisted
in examining the injured man's
clothes: they discovered that
his watch and purse were both
missing. When it became necessary
to carry him upstairs, it was
the footman who assisted the
doctor. The foot man's master,
without a word of explanation,
walked out bare headed into the
back garden, on the search, as
the doctor and the servants supposed,
for some trace of the robber
who had attempted Sir Joseph's
life.
His absence was hardly noticed
at the time. The difficulty of
conveying the wounded man to
his room absorbed the attention
of all the persons present.
Sir Joseph partially recovered
his senses while they were taking
him up the steep and narrow stairs.
Carefully as they carried the
patient, the motion wrung a groan
from him before they reached
the top. The bedroom corridor,
in the rambling, irregularly
built house rose and fell on
different levels. At the door
of the first bedchamber the doctor
asked a little anxiously if that
was the room. No; there were
three more stairs to go down,
and a corner to turn, before
they could reach it. The first
room was Natalie's. She instantly
offered it for her father's use.
The doctor (seeing that it was
the airiest as well as the nearest
room) accepted the proposal.
Sir Joseph had been laid comfortably
in his daughter's bed; the doctor
had just left them, with renewed
assurances that they need feel
no anxiety, when they heard a
heavy step below stairs. Turlington
had re-entered the house.
(He had been looking, as they
had supposed, for the ruffian
who had attacked Sir Joseph;
with a motive, however, for the
search at which it was impossible
for other persons to guess. His
own safety was now bound up in
the safety of Thomas Wildfang.
As soon as he was out of sight
in the darkness, he made straight
for the malt-house. The change
of clothes was there untouched;
not a trace of his accomplice
was to be seen. Where else to
look for him it was impossible
to tell. Turlington had no alternative
but to go back to the house,
and ascertain if suspicion had
been aroused in his absence.)
He had only to ascend the stairs,
and to see, through the open
door, that Sir Joseph had been
placed in his daughter's room.
"What does this mean?" he
asked, roughly.
Before it was
possible to answer him the
footman appeared with
a message. The doctor had come
back to the door to say that
he would take on himself the
necessary duty of informing the
constable of what had happened,
on his return to the village.
Turlington started and changed
color. If Wildfang was found
by others, and questioned in
his employer's absence, serious
consequences might follow. "The
constable is my business," said
Turlington, hurriedly descending
the stairs; "I'll go with the
doctor." They heard him open
the door below, then close it
again (as if some sudden thought
had struck him), and call to
the footman. The house was badly
provided with servants' bedrooms.
The women-servants only slept
indoors. The footman occupied
a room over the stables. Natalie
and her aunt heard Turlington
dismiss the man for the night,
an hour earlier than usual at
least. His next proceeding was
stranger still. Looking cautiously
over the stairs, Natalie saw
him lock all the doors on the
ground-floor and take out the
keys. When he went away, she
heard him lock the front door
behind him. Incredible as it
seemed, there could be no doubt
of the fact--the inmates of the
house were imprisoned till he
came back. What did it mean?
(It meant that Turlington's
vengeance still remained to be
wreaked on the woman who had
deceived him. It meant that Sir
Joseph's life still stood between
the man who had compassed his
death and the money which the
man was resolved to have. It
meant that Richard Turlington
was driven to bay, and that the
horror and the peril of the night
were not at an end yet.)
Natalie and
her aunt looked at each other
across the bed
on which Sir Joseph lay. He had
fallen into a kind of doze; no
enlightenment could come to them
from _him_. They could only ask
each other, with beating hearts
and baffled minds, what Richard's
conduct meant--they could only
feel instinctively that some
dreadful discovery was hanging
over them. The aunt was the calmer
of the two--there was no secret
weighing heavily on _her_ conscience.
_She_ could feel the consolations
of religion. "Our dear one is
spared to us, my love," said
the old lady, gently. "God has
been good to us. We are in his
hands. If we know that, we know
enough."
As she spoke
there was a loud ring at the
doorbell. The women-servants
crowded into the bedroom in alarm.
Strong in numbers, and encouraged
by Natalie--who roused herself
and led the way-- they confronted
the risk of opening the window
and of venturing out on the balcony
which extended along that side
of the house. A man was dimly
visible below. He called to them
in thick, unsteady accents. The
servants recognized him: he was
the telegraphic messenger from
the railway. They went down to
speak to him--and returned with
a telegram which had been pushed
in under the door. The distance
from the station was considerable;
the messenger had been "keeping
Christmas" in more than one beer-
shop on his way to the house;
and the delivery of the telegram
had been delayed for some hours.
It was addressed to Natalie.
She opened it--looked at it--dropped
it--and stood speechless; her
lips parted in horror, her eyes
staring vacantly straight before
her.
Miss Lavinia took the telegram
from the floor, and read these
lines:
"Lady Winwood,
Hertford Street, London. To
Natalie Graybrooke,
Church Meadows, Baxdale, Somersetshire.
Dreadful news. R. T. has discovered
your marriage to Launce. The
truth has been kept from me till
to-day (24th). Instant flight
with your husband is your only
chance. I would have communicated
with Launce, but I do not know
his address. You will receive
this, I hope and believe, before
R. T. can return to Somersetshire.
Telegraph back, I entreat you,
to say that you are safe. I shall
follow my message if I do not
hear from you in reasonable time."
Miss Lavinia
lifted her gray head, and looked
at her niece. "Is
this true?" she said--and pointed
to the venerable face laid back,
white, on the white pillow of
the bed. Natalie sank forward
as her eyes met the eyes of her
aunt. Miss Lavinia saved her
from falling insensible on the
floor.
* * * * * * * * *
The confession
had been made. The words of
penitence and the
words of pardon had been spoken.
The peaceful face of the father
still lay hushed in rest. One
by one the minutes succeeded
each other uneventfully in the
deep tranquillity of the night.
It was almost a relief when the
silence was disturbed once more
by another sound outside the
house. A pebble was thrown up
at the window, and a voice called
out cautiously, "Miss Lavinia!"
They recognized the voice of
the man-servant, and at once
opened the window.
He had something to say to
the ladies in private. How could
he say it? A domestic circumstance
which had been marked by Launce,
as favorable to the contemplated
elopement, was now noticed by
the servant as lending itself
readily to effecting the necessary
communication with the ladies.
The lock of the gardener's tool-house
(in the shrubbery close by) was
under repair; and the gardener's
ladder was accessible to any
one who wanted it. At the short
height of the balcony from the
ground, the ladder was more than
long enough for the purpose required.
In a few minutes the servant
had mounted to the balcony, and
could speak to Natalie and her
aunt at the window.
"I can't rest quiet," said
the man, "I'm off on the sly
to see what's going on down in
the village. It's hard on ladies
like you to be locked in here.
Is there anything I can do for
either of you?"
Natalie took
up Lady Winwood's telegram. "Launce ought to see
this," she said to her aunt. "He
will be here at daybreak," she
added, in a whisper, "if I don't
tell him what has happened."
Miss Lavinia
turned pale. "If
he and Richard meet--" she began. "Tell
him!" she added, hurriedly--"tell
him before it is too late!"
Natalie wrote a few lines (addressed
to Launce in his assumed name
at his lodgings in the village)
inclosing Lady Winwood's telegram,
and entreating him to do nothing
rash. When the servant had disappeared
with the letter, there was one
hope in her mind and in her aunt's
mind, which each was ashamed
to acknowledge to the other --the
hope that Launce would face the
very danger that they dreaded
for him, and come to the house.
They had not
been long alone again, when
Sir Joseph drowsily
opened his eyes and asked what
they were doing in his room.
They told him gently that he
was ill. He put his hand up to
his head, and said they were
right, and so dropped off again
into slumber. Worn out by the
emotions through which they had
passed, the two women silently
waited for the march of events.
The same stupor of resignation
possessed them both. They had
secured the door and the window.
They had prayed together. They
had kissed the quiet face on
the pillow. They had said to
each other, "We will live with
him or die with him as God pleases." Miss
Lavinia sat by the bedside. Natalie
was on a stool at her feet--with
her eyes closed, and her head
on her aunt's knee.
Time went on. The clock in
the hall had struck--ten or eleven,
they were not sure which--when
they heard the signal which warned
them of the servant's return
from the village. He brought
news, and more than news; he
brought a letter from Launce.
Natalie read these lines:
"I shall be
with you, dearest, almost as
soon as you receive
this. The bearer will tell you
what has happened in the village--
your note throws a new light
on it all. I only remain behind
to go to the vicar (who is also
the magistrate here), and declare
myself your husband. All disguise
must be at an end now. My place
is with you and yours. It is
even worse than your worst fears.
Turlington was at the bottom
of the attack on your father.
Judge if you have not need of
your husband's protection after
that!--L."
Natalie handed the letter to
her aunt, and pointed to the
sentence which asserted Turlington's
guilty knowledge of the attempt
on Sir Joseph's life. In silent
horror the two women looked at
each other, recalling what had
happened earlier in the evening,
and understanding it now. The
servant roused them to a sense
of present things, by entering
on the narrative of his discoveries
in the village.
The place was all astir when
he reached it. An old man--a
stranger in Baxdale--had been
found lying in the road, close
to the church, in a fit; and
the person who had discovered
him had been no other than Launce
himself. He had, literally, stumbled
over the body of Thomas Wildfang
in the dark, on his way back
to his lodgings in the village.
"The gentleman gave the alarm,
miss," said the servant, describing
the event, as it had been related
to him, "and the man--a huge,
big old man--was carried to the
inn. The landlord identified
him; he had taken lodgings at
the inn that day, and the constable
found valuable property on him--a
purse of money and a gold watch
and chain. There was nothing
to show who the money and the
watch belonged to. It was only
when my master and the doctor
got to the inn that it was known
whom he had robbed and tried
to murder. All he let out in
his wanderings before they came
was that some person had set
him on to do it. He called the
person 'Captain,' and sometimes
'Captain Goward.' It was thought--if
you could trust the ravings of
a madman--that the fit took him
while he was putting his hand
on Sir Joseph's heart to feel
if it had stopped beating. A
sort of vision (as I understand
it) must have overpowered him
at the moment. They tell me he
raved about the sea bursting
into the church yard, and a drowning
sailor floating by on a hen-coop;
a sailor who dragged him down
to hell by the hair of his head,
and such like horrible nonsense,
miss. He was still screeching,
at the worst of the fit, when
my master and the doctor came
into the room. At sight of one
or other of them--it is thought
of Mr. Turlington, seeing that
he came first--he held his peace
on a sudden, and then fell back
in convulsions in the arms of
the men who were holding him.
The doctor gave it a learned
name, signifying drink-madness,
and said the case was hopeless.
However, he ordered the room
to be cleared of the crowd to
see what be could do. My master
was reported to be still with
the doctor, waiting to see whether
the man lived or died, when I
left the village, miss, with
the gentleman's answer to your
note. I didn't dare stay to hear
how it ended, for fear of Mr.
Turlington's finding me out."
Having reached the end of his
narrative, the man looked round
restlessly toward the window.
It was impossible to say when
his master might not return,
and it might be as much as his
life was worth to be caught in
the house after he had been locked
out of it. He begged permission
to open the window, and make
his escape back to the stables
while there was still time. As
he unbarred the shutter they
were startled by a voice hailing
them from below. It was Launce's
voice calling to Natalie. The
servant disappeared, and Natalie
was in Launce's arms before she
could breathe again.
For one delicious
moment she let her head lie
on his breast;
then she suddenly pushed him
away from her. "Why do you come
here? He will kill you if he
finds you in the house. Where
is he?"
Launce knew
even less of Turlington's movements
than the servant. "Wherever
he is, thank God, I am here before
him!" That was all the answer
he could give.
Natalie and
her aunt heard him in silent
dismay. Sir Joseph
woke, and recognized Launce before
a word more could be said. "Ah,
my dear boy!" he murmured, faintly. "It's
pleasant to see you again. How
do you come here?" He was quite
satisfied with the first excuse
that suggested itself. "We'll
talk about it to- morrow," he
said, and composed himself to
rest again.
Natalie made a second attempt
to persuade Launce to leave the
house.
"We don't know what may have
happened," she said. "He may
have followed you on your way
here. He may have purposely let
you enter his house. Leave us
while you have the chance."
Miss Lavinia added her persuasions.
They were useless. Launce quietly
closed the heavy window-shutters,
lined with iron, and put up the
bar. Natalie wrung her hands
in despair.
"Have you been to the magistrate?" she
asked. "Tell us, at least, are
you here by his advice? Is he
coming to help us?"
Launce hesitated.
If he had told the truth, he
must have
acknowledged that he was there
in direct opposition to the magistrate's
advice. He answered evasively, "If
the vicar doesn't come, the doctor
will. I have told him Sir Joseph
must he moved. Cheer up, Natalie!
The doctor will be here as soon
as Turlington."
As the name passed his lips--without
a sound outside to prepare them
for what was coming--the voice
of Turlington himself suddenly
penetrated into the room, speaking
close behind the window, on the
outer side.
"You have broken into my house
in the night," said the voice. "And
you don't escape _this_ way."
Miss Lavinia sank on her knees.
Natalie flew to her father. His
eyes were wide open in terror;
he moaned, feebly recognizing
the voice. The next sound that
was heard was the sound made
by the removal of the ladder
from the balcony. Turlington,
having descended by it, had taken
it away. Natalie had but too
accurately guessed what would
happen. The death of the villain's
accomplice had freed him from
all apprehension in that quarter.
He had deliberately dogged Launce's
steps, and had deliberately allowed
him to put himself in the wrong
by effecting a secret entrance
into the house.
There was an interval--a horrible
interval--and then they heard
the front door opened. Without
stopping (judging by the absence
of sound) to close it again,
Turlington rapidly ascended the
stairs and tried the locked door.
"Come out, and give yourself
up!" he called through the door. "I
have got my revolver with me,
and I have a right to fire on
a man who has broken into my
house. If the door isn't opened
before I count three, your blood
be on your own head. One!"
Launce was armed with nothing
but his stick. He advanced, without
an instant's hesitation, to give
himself up. Natalie threw her
arms round him and clasped him
fast before he could reach the
door.
"Two!" cried
the voice outside, as Launce
struggled to force
her from him. At the same moment
his eye turned toward the bed.
It was exactly opposite the door--it
was straight in the line of fire!
Sir Joseph' s life (as Turlington
had deliberately calculated)
was actually in greater danger
than Launce's life. He tore himself
free, rushed to the bed, and
took the old man in his arms
to lift him out.
"Three!"
The crash of the report sounded.
The bullet came through the door,
grazed Launce's left arm, and
buried itself in the pillow,
at the very place on which Sir
Joseph's head had rested the
moment before. Launce had saved
his father-in-law's life. Turlington
had fired his first shot for
the money, and had not got it
yet.
They were safe in the corner
of the room, on the same side
as the door--Sir Joseph, helpless
as a child, in Launce's arms;
the women pale, but admirably
calm. They were safe for the
moment, when the second bullet
(fired at an angle) tore its
way through the wall on their
right hand.
"I hear you," cried the voice
of the miscreant on the other
side of the door. "I'll have
you yet--through the wall."
There was a pause. They heard
his hand sounding the wall, to
find out where there was solid
wood in the material of which
it was built, and where there
was plaster only. At that dreadful
moment Launce's composure never
left him. He laid Sir Joseph
softly on the floor, and signed
to Natalie and her aunt to lie
down by him in silence. Their
lives depended now on neither
their voices nor their movements
telling the murderer where to
fire. He chose his place. The
barrel of the revolver grated
as he laid it against the wall.
He touched the hair trigger.
A faint _click_ was the only
sound that followed. The third
barrel had missed fire.
They heard
him ask himself, with an oath, "What's
wrong with it now?"
There was a pause of silence.
Was he examining the weapon?
Before they could ask themselves
the question, the report of the
exploding charge burst on their
ears. It was instantly followed
by a heavy fall. They looked
at the opposite wall of the room.
No sign of a bullet there or
anywhere.
Launce signed to them not to
move yet. They waited, and listened.
Nothing stirred on the landing
outside.
Suddenly there was a disturbance
of the silence in the lower regions--a
clamor of many voices at the
open house door. Had the firing
of the revolver been heard at
the vicarage? Yes! They recognized
the vicar's voice among the others.
A moment more, and they heard
a general exclamation of horror
on the stairs. Launce opened
the door of the room. He instantly
closed it again before Natalie
could follow him.
The dead body of Turlington
lay on the landing outside. The
charge in the fourth barrel of
the revolver had exploded while
he was looking at it. The bullet
had entered his mouth and killed
him on the spot. |