Again we heard the knock upon our door, and, we thought, a low groan; but it might have been the wind.  The hound was snuffing at the door, and uttered a low wail, as though mourning for the dead.  Two or three times he trotted towards us, and then returned and scratched at the woodwork with his claws, as though anxious to get into the street.

“I can stand this no longer!” cried Fred, cocking his revolver, and starting up.  “I will see who is at the door if a dozen robbers are waiting outside.”

He started towards the door as he spoke, and I followed him.  Just as we were about to draw the bolts, another knock, but much fainter, and a low, death-like groan, fell upon our ears.

We started, and hesitated about proceeding; but Rover looked up into our faces with such an expression, as though to encourage us to see what the matter was, that we determined to investigate, and no longer suspect a trick.

We withdrew the bolts and suddenly threw open the door, and as we did so, the body of a man fell inward, and lay at our feet motionless, although by our lights, dim as they were, we could see that our midnight visitor was covered with blood.

CHAPTER LII.

THE ATTEMPT TO MURDER MR. CRITCHET.

We were surprised and somewhat startled at the intrusion, but we did not stop to exchange surmises, or to ask questions.  A man was lying at our feet, badly wounded, and was bleeding freely from half a dozen cuts or stabs.

We considered that our first duty was to attend to him, and defend him, if necessary, from a fresh attack of assailants, and that after his wounds were dressed, and he was able to answer questions, then we could investigate the circumstances connected with his mysterious appearance at our door, and, if possible, bring to justice the perpetrators of the wrong.

Before we moved the now insensible body, we looked out and endeavored to discover if persons wore loitering near; but all was quiet, and not a soul was to be seen.  We hastily closed the door and bolted it, and then moved the wounded man to a mattress that we kept for Smith to sleep upon when he was with us, and as we did so, and the light fell upon his features, we were surprised to discover that our visitor was our nearest neighbor, an elderly Englishman by the name of Critchet, who, in company with his nephew, a young fellow of dissipated habits, was working a mine about a quarter of a mile from our store.  The young man’s name was Follet; and while we had never had any conversation with him, excepting while selling a few articles which he required from the store, we had taken a strong prejudice against him, although upon what ground we could not really tell.

He was one of those kind of men who never look you full in the face while speaking, and if indeed you caught his eye, it was only for the sixteenth part of a second, and by accident at that.  He had the name of being a desperate gambler, and once Mr. Brown had called our attention to him, and remarked that he had lost more money at card playing than he made honestly, and wondered if his uncle supplied his extravagances.