He peered over the rail.
"Hello!" he added, "here's a ladder—leading down."
"There's a little garden down there," explained Radwalader, peering over in his turn. "I remember now. It's on part of the foundations of another old house, and the chap who lives in this one grows flowers there, oddly enough, and goes up and down on the ladder. Your knife's down there, somewhere. Jove! but it's dark!"
But Andrew already had one leg across the railing, one foot on the top round of the ladder.
"This is easy," he said, "and I have my match-box, too. You see—well, Margery bought the knife only this morning in the bazar, and I wouldn't lose it for the world. And, by the way, Radwalader, forget what I said just now, will you? It wasn't very decent."
Then, with a short laugh of embarrassment, he descended into the shadows.
The shadows! They were very deep below there, until broken by the flicker of Andrew's match. Then the shadows under the doorway of the old house, up by the top of the bridge, were deeper, and—what was this?—one shadow moved—moved—drew near to the man who leaned upon the rail, whistling "Au Clair de la Lune."
"All right!" called Andrew. "I have it. Now we come up again."
"Go slow," advised Radwalader. "You'll find it darker than ever, after the match. Why—what—"
A hand on his shoulder had spun him round, but he had no more than recognized the white face grinning into his, no more than time to comprehend the words, "You've whistled for the last time, by God!" before the steel-shod butt of a revolver crashed three times in succession on—and through—his forehead.