"I'll teach you how, Calhoun. It's not hard. I'll teach you how."

He passed a long cigar over the table to Dyck, who, however, did not
light it, but held it in his fingers. Boyne struck a light and held it
out across the small table. Dyck leaned forward, but, as he did so, the
wine took possession of his senses. His head fell forward in sleep, and
the cigar dropped from his fingers.

"Ah, well--ah, well, we must do some business now!" remarked Boyne. He
leaned over Dyck for a moment. "Yes, sound asleep," he said, and laughed
scornfully to himself. "Well, when it's dark we must get him away.
He'll sleep for four or five hours, and by that time he'll be out on the
way to France, and the rest is easy."

He was about to go to the door that led into the business part of the
house, when the door leading into the street opened softly, and a woman
stepped inside. She had used the key which Boyne had forgotten at his
house.

At first he did not hear her. Then, when he did turn round, it was too
late. The knife she carried under her skirt flashed out and into Boyne's
heart. He collapsed on the floor without a sound, save only a deep sigh.

Stooping over, Noreen drew the knife out with a little gurgling cry--a
smothered exclamation. Then she opened the door again--the side-door
leading into the street-closed it softly, and was gone.

Two hours afterwards the landlord opened the door. Erris Boyne lay in
his silence, stark and still. At the table, with his head sunk in his
arms, sat Dyck Calhoun, snoring stertorously, his drawn sword by his