A narrow bed, unoccupied, undisturbed, its coverlet white and unwrinkled, stood against the wall. At the foot a small stand held a few books, and above this hung the picture of a gray-haired woman. This was all the view the narrow opening revealed, but served to render me even more cautious—the occupant was not lying down.
Yet I could not stop then; could not safely retreat. Even if someone sat there, hidden from view, patiently waiting to gain glimpse of me to kill, I must go on and discover the truth. My revolver was at the crack, ready, and my left hand slowly opened the door wider. Now I could see the opposite wall, and the space between, and I stood there motionless, breathless, yet feeling my very flesh quiver at the unexpected revealment. In front of a small grate fire, her back toward me, snuggled comfortably down in the depths of an easy chair, sat a woman, reading. I could see little of her because of the high back of the chair rising between us—only a mass of dark brown hair, a smooth, rounded cheek, and the small white hand resting on the chair arm. I knew vaguely her waist was white, her skirt gray, and I saw the glimmer of a pearl-handled pistol lying on a closed chest at her side. Still she was only a woman, a mere girl apparently, whom I had no cause to fear. The sudden reaction caused me to
