“Has Mr. Allen returned?” he demanded.  “Or Captain Reese?” The attendant thought not, but he would go and see.  “No,” Holcombe said, “I will look for myself.”  He sprang up the stairs to the third floor, and turned down a passage to a door at its farthest end.  Here he stopped and knocked gently.  “Reese,” he called; “Reese!” There was no response to his summons, and he knocked again, with more impatience, and then cautiously turned the handle of the door, and, pushing it forward, stepped into the room.  “Reese,” he said, softly, “its Holcombe.  Are you here?” The room was dark except for the light from the hall, which shone dimly past him and fell upon a gun-rack hanging on the wall opposite.  Holcombe hurried toward this and ran his hands over it, and passed on quickly from that to the mantel and the tables, stumbling over chairs and riding-boots as he groped about, and tripping on the skin of some animal that lay stretched upon the floor.  He felt his way, around the entire circuit of the room, and halted near the door with an exclamation of disappointment.  By this time his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and he noted the white surface of the bed in a far corner and ran quickly toward it, groping with his hands about the posts at its head.  He closed his fingers with a quick gasp of satisfaction on a leather belt that hung from it, heavy with cartridges and a revolver that swung from its holder.  Holcombe pulled this out and jerked back the lever, spinning the cylinder around under the edge of his thumb.  He felt the grease of each cartridge as it passed under his nail.  The revolver was loaded in each chamber, and Holcombe slipped it into the pocket of his coat and crept out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.  He met no one in the hall or on the stairs, and passed on quickly to a room on the second floor.  There was a light in this room which showed through the transom and under the crack at the floor, and there was a sound of some one moving about within.  Holcombe knocked gently and waited.

The movement on the other side of the door ceased, and after a pause a voice asked who was there.  Holcombe hesitated a second before answering, and then said, “It is a servant, sir, with a note for Mr. Allen.”

At the sound of some one moving toward the door from within, Holcombe threw his shoulder against the panel and pressed forward.  There was the click of the key turning in the lock and of the withdrawal of a bolt, and the door was partly opened.  Holcombe pushed it back with his shoulder, and, stepping quickly inside, closed it again behind him.

The man within, into whose presence he had forced himself, confronted him with a look of some alarm, which increased in surprise as he recognized his visitor.  “Why, Holcombe!” he exclaimed.  He looked past him as though expecting some one else to follow.  “I thought it was a servant,” he said.