heard only the click of the knitting needles, and he saw only the small,
strong hands moving swiftly back and forth. They were very white,
and they were firm like those of a young woman. There were none of the
heavy blue veins across the back that betoken age.

The hands fascinated him. He stared at them, fairly pouring his gaze
upon them. They were beautiful, as the hands of a great lady should be
kept, and it was all the more wonderful then that the right should have
across the back of it a faint gray smudge, so tiny that only an eye like
his, and a concentrated gaze like his, could have seen it.

He took four swift steps forward, seized the white hand in his and held
it up.

"Madame," he said, and now his tone was as fierce as hers had ever been,
"where is the rifle?"

She made no attempt to release her hand, nor did she move at all, save to
lift her head. Then her eyes, hard, defiant and ruthless, looked into
his. But his look did not flinch from hers. He knew, and, knowing,
he meant to act.

"Madame," he repeated, "where is the rifle? It is useless for you to
deny."

"Have I denied?"

"No, but where is the rifle?"

He was wholly unconscious of it, but his surprise and excitement were so