A new noise came to his ears, and he listened without a tremor or movement of his body.
It was the click of a revolver cock!
The Kentuckian knew this sound too well to be deceived. Slowly he turned about, toward the large table on which stood the solitary oil lamp of the room.
He began to unfold his overcoat, which had been hanging over his left arm. Then he started whistling the first rippling bars of that good old Southern battle-song "Dixie."
Slowly he walked toward the lamp, apparently examining his overcoat.
The man drew out from the shelter of the arch, and the revolver was pointed straight at his back.
Suddenly the overcoat flew from the American's hands, covering and extinguishing the glass lamp, which fell with a crash in the darkness.
There was a portentous pause—it seemed hours; its length was the bare fraction of a second.
Two shots rang out, and scurrying feet were the only indication of life within the room. Another shot sent its tongue of blood-thirsty flame into the black void. There was a groan of anguish.
Then footsteps advanced to the door.