It must have been at least a minute after I heard the click of the cocked pistol before he spoke.

“How did you get here?” he asked.

The quiet commonplace terms in which he put his question, and the perfect composure and politeness of his manner, reminded me a little of Gentleman Jones.  But the doctor was much the more respectable-looking man of the two; his baldness was more intellectual and benevolent; there was a delicacy and propriety in the pulpiness of his fat white chin, a bland bagginess in his unwhiskered cheeks, a reverent roughness about his eyebrows and a fullness in his lower eyelids, which raised him far higher, physiognomically speaking, in the social scale, than my old prison acquaintance.  Put a shovel-hat on Gentleman Jones, and the effect would only have been eccentric; put the same covering on the head of Doctor Dulcifer, and the effect would have been strictly episcopal.

“How did you get here?” he repeated, still without showing the least irritation.

I told him how I had got in at the second-floor window, without concealing a word of the truth.  The gravity of the situation, and the sharpness of the doctor’s intellects, as expressed in his eyes, made anything like a suppression of facts on my part a desperately dangerous experiment.

“You wanted to see what I was about up here, did you?” said he, when I had ended my confession.  “Do you know?”

The pistol barrel touched my cheek as he said the last words.  I thought of all the suspicious objects scattered about the room, of the probability that he was only putting this question to try my courage, of the very likely chance that he would shoot me forthwith, if I began to prevaricate.  I thought of these things, and boldly answered: 

“Yes, I do know.”

He looked at me reflectively; then said, in low, thoughtful tones, speaking, not to me, but entirely to himself: 

“Suppose I shoot him?”

I saw in his eye, that if I flinched, he would draw the trigger.

“Suppose you trust me?” I said, without moving a muscle.

“I trusted you, as an honest man, downstairs, and I find you, like a thief, up here,” returned the doctor, with a self-satisfied smile at the neatness of his own retort.  “No,” he continued, relapsing into soliloquy:  “there is risk every way; but the least risk perhaps is to shoot him.”

“Wrong,” said I.  “There are relations of mine who have a pecuniary interest in my life.  I am the main condition of a contingent reversion in their favor.  If I am missed, I shall be inquired after.”  I have wondered since at my own coolness in the face of the doctor’s pistol; but my life depended on my keeping my self-possession, and the desperate nature of the situation lent me a desperate courage.

“How do I know you are not lying?” he asked.

“Have I not spoken the truth, hitherto?”

Those words made him hesitate.  He lowered the pistol slowly to his side.  I began to breathe freely.