Gascoyne had no doubt at all that his revolver lay under the pillow beneath Bruton’s head. He was as confident it was there as if he had seen it. He extinguished the candle, put it on the floor, and crept into the bedroom on his hands and knees, making no sound, and breathing through both mouth and nostrils. His fingers slid along the mattress until they reached the pillows. Then for a minute he paused. Gently, gently his open hand felt its way inch by inch, pressing itself hard upon the mattress. Again he paused. The sleeper did not move. Then, once more, his hand began its stealthy work, exploring, sensitive, apprehensive....
In ten minutes he was sitting on the floor holding the revolver, sweat on his forehead, a dreadful dryness in his throat. And now he rose to his feet and walked quickly and agitatedly but very silently to his own room, locking the door behind him.
“I’ll show him!” he muttered. “I’ll teach him to meddle.”
Taking a thick eiderdown quilt from a cupboard, he spread it carefully on the bed. Then, with the revolver still in his hand, he crept head-first beneath the clothes, dragging them closely around him....
No one heard the shot that was fired....
Not until the marvellous April dawn of Greece came that morning did Bruton wake up and, jumping out of bed, try oh! so quietly to open Gascoyne’s door. For, if Gascoyne slept, he did not wish to wake him.
THE VICTIM
To
Marcel Xystobam