He lifted the pistol from the table, examining its mechanism.  He rose and walked across the room till he stood with his back against the door, the pistol in his hand, its barrel pointing straight at Marsden’s heart.  Marsden never moved.  Then as the two men faced one another thus, looking into one another’s eyes, their ears caught a sound from behind the closed door of the inner room—­a sharp, hard, metallic sound as if some one in the room within had raised the hammer of a pistol—­a jewelled pistol like the one in Dangerfield’s hand.

And then—­

A loud report, and with a cry, the cry of a woman, one shrill despairing cry—­

Or no, hang it—­I can’t consent to end up a story in that fashion, with the dead woman prone across the bed, the smoking pistol, with a jewel on the hilt, still clasped in her hand—­the red blood welling over the white laces of her gown—­while the two men gaze down upon her cold face with horror in their eyes.  Not a bit.  Let’s end it like this: 

“A shrill despairing cry—­’Ed!  Charlie!  Come in here quick!  Hurry!  The steam coil has blown out a plug!  You two boys quit talking and come in here, for heaven’s sake, and fix it.’” And, indeed, if the reader will look back he will see there is nothing in the dialogue to preclude it.  He was misled, that’s all.  I merely said that Mrs. Dangerfield had left her husband a few days before.  So she had—­to do some shopping in New York.  She thought it mean of him to follow her.  And I never said that Mrs. Dangerfield had any connection whatever with The Woman with whom Marsden was in love.  Not at all.  He knew her, of course, because he came from Brick City.  But she had thought he was in Philadelphia, and naturally she was surprised to see him back in New York.  That’s why she exclaimed “Back!” And as a matter of plain fact, you can’t pick up a revolver without its pointing somewhere.  No one said he meant to fire it.

In fact, if the reader will glance back at the dialogue—­I know he has no time to, but if he does—­he will see that, being something of a snoopopath himself, he has invented the whole story.

III.  Foreign Fiction in Imported Instalments.

Serge the Superman:  A Russian Novel

(Translated, with a hand pump, out of the original Russian)

SPECIAL EDITORIAL NOTE, OR, FIT OF CONVULSIONS INTO WHICH AN EDITOR FALLS IN INTRODUCING THIS SORT OF STORY TO HIS READERS.  We need offer no apology to our readers in presenting to them a Russian novel.  There is no doubt that the future in literature lies with Russia.  The names of Tolstoi, of Turgan-something, and Dostoi-what-is-it are household words in America.  We may say with certainty that Serge the Superman is the most distinctly Russian thing produced in years.  The Russian view of life is melancholy and fatalistic.  It is dark with the gloom of the great forests of