kitchen window) went off with a whirr and a wild succession of
clangs. For a moment I thought the morning train had arrived, and
then I woke up. Euphemia was already under the bed.

I hurried on a few clothes, and then I tried to find the bureau in
the dark. This was not easy, as I lost my bearings entirely. But
I found it at last, got the top drawer open and took out my pistol.
Then I slipped out of the room, hurried up the stairs, opened the
door (setting off the alarm there, by the way), and ran along the
deck (there was a cold night wind), and hastily descended the steep
steps that led into the boarder's room. The door that was at the
bottom of the steps was not fastened, and, as I opened it, a little
stray moonlight illumed the room. I hastily stepped to the bed and
shook the boarder by the shoulder. He kept HIS pistol under his
pillow.

In an instant he was on his feet, his hand grasped my throat, and
the cold muzzle of his Derringer pistol was at my forehead. It was
an awfully big muzzle, like the mouth of a bottle.

I don't know when I lived so long as during the first minute that
he held me thus.

"Rascal!" he said. "Do as much as breathe, and I'll pull the
trigger."

I didn't breathe.

I had an accident insurance on my life. Would it hold good in a
case like this? Or would Euphemia have to go back to her father?