till the stroke of six I must keep my face turned to the street."

Some queer and unusual inspiration made the prosaic soldier
resolute to accept these outrageous riddles without surprise.

"It is almost six," he said; and even as he spoke the barbaric
copper clock upon the wall clanged the first stroke of the hour.
At the sixth the lady sprang up and turned on the Major one of
the queerest and yet most attractive faces he had ever seen in
his life; open, and yet tantalising, the face of an elf.

"That makes the third year I have waited," she cried. "This is an
anniversary. The waiting almost makes one wish the frightful thing
would happen once and for all."

And even as she spoke, a sudden rending cry broke the stillness.
From low down on the pavement of the dim street (it was already
twilight) a voice cried out with a raucous and merciless
distinctness:

"Major Brown, Major Brown, where does the jackal dwell?"

Brown was decisive and silent in action. He strode to the front
door and looked out. There was no sign of life in the blue gloaming
of the street, where one or two lamps were beginning to light their
lemon sparks. On returning, he found the lady in green trembling.

"It is the end," she cried, with shaking lips; "it may be death for
both of us. Whenever--"