he had completed his task. Then she lifted the little valise which she had at her side, put it on her knees, opened it and took out a book. It must have been instinct which made him raise his eyes to her.
"What have you got there?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, a book," she said, with an attempt at carelessness.
"But why have you got it out? You are not reading."
He leant over and snatched it from her and looked at the title.
"'A Friend in Need,'" he read. "By Stanford Beale—by Stanford Beale," he repeated, frowning. "I didn't know your husband wrote books?"
She made no reply. He turned back the cover and read the title page.
"But this is 'Smiles's Self Help,'" he said.
"It's the same thing," she replied.
He turned another page or two, then stopped, for he had come to a place where the centre of the book had been cut right out. The leaves had been glued together to disguise this fact, and what was apparently a book was in reality a small box.
"What was in there?" he asked, springing to his feet.
"This," she said, "don't move, Dr. van Heerden!"
The little hand which held the Browning was firm and did not quiver.
"I don't think you are going to send your pigeons off this morning, doctor," she said. "Stand back from the table." She leant over and seized the little heap of papers and the watch. "I am going to shoot you," she said steadily, "if you refuse to do as I tell you; because if I don't shoot you, you will kill me."
His face had grown old and grey in the space of a few seconds. The white hands he raised were shaking. He tried to speak but only a hoarse murmur came. Then his face went blank. He stared at the pistol, then stretched out his hands slowly toward it.
"Stand back!" she cried.
He jumped at her, and she pulled the trigger, but nothing happened, and the next minute she was struggling in his arms. The man was hysterical with fear and relief
