“Even these chances, taken at the best, would scarcely keep a man alive,” said Davis.
“Nor would they; but we suspect he must have means of getting out at night and making a 'raid' over the country. We constantly hear of fowls carried off; cheese and fruit stolen. There he is now, creeping along the gallery. Listen! I have left some apples outside.”
With a gesture to enforce caution, Davis arose, and placed a percussion-cap on a pistol, a motion of his hand sufficing to show that the weapon was not loaded.
“Open the door gently,” said he; and the waiter, stealing over noiselessly, turned the handle. Scarcely had the door been drawn back, when Grog saw the figure of a man, and snapped off the pistol. At the same moment he sprang from the spot, and rushed out to the corridor. The stranger, to all seeming, was not even startled by the report, but was gravely occupied in examining his sleeve to see if he had been struck. He lifted up his head, and Davis, with a start, cried out,—
“What, Paul!—Paul Classon! Is this possible!”
“Davis—old fellow!—do I see you here?” exclaimed the other, in a deep and mellow voice, utterly devoid of irritation or even excitement.
“Come in,—come in here, Paul,” said Davis, taking him by the arm; and he led him within the room. “Little I suspected on whom I was playing this scurvy trick.”
“It was not loaded,” said the other, coolly.
“Of course not”
“I thought so,” said he, with an easy smile; “they 've had so many devices to frighten me.”