waited on Wing for two years and, apparently, had not struck until every other means of securing what they wanted had failed. When they did strike, they had struck pitilessly and effectively. But they were still on their guard, as the assault on the Bridge and this wanton murder of a wounded man proved. They had gone so far; certainly they would not now retire from the game, nor would they show a scrupulousness they had failed to feel before they had so far committed themselves that retreat was impossible. It was a struggle to the death, with an unseen foe, by a man who at all times stood out as a plain mark. He had the sensation of one who stands with a lamp in his hands and peers into the deeper dark, to catch a glimpse of a foe that he simply knows lies in wait for him unseen.
