of the noise it made I heard again that quick, sharp sound.  This time I was sure it came from somewhere near, and opening my door, I slid out into the hall.  All my lodgers were in but one, a young gentleman who has a night-key.  And most of the rooms were dark, as I can very well tell from the fact that none of the doors fit as they ought to and there is sure to be a streak of light showing somewhere about them if the gas is burning inside.  Everything looked so natural, and the house was so still, that I was going back again when another train swept by and that sound was repeated.  This time I was sure it came from somewhere on the lower floor, and mindful of Mrs. Clery’s queer ways, I stole downstairs to her door.  She was up—­that was plainly enough to be seen.  But what was she doing?  I was just a little frightened, or I would have knocked on the door and asked.

As I was waiting for the passing by of the next train, my last lodger came in and caught me standing there before Mrs. Clery’s door.  I know him pretty well; so I put my finger to my lips and then beckoned him to join me.  As the train approached, I seized him by the arm and pointed toward Mrs. Clery’s door.  He didn’t know what I meant, of course, but he looked and listened, and when the train had gone by, I drew him down the hall and said, “You heard it!” and then asked him what it was.  He answered that it was a pistol-shot, and he wanted to go back to see if any dreadful thing had happened.  But I shook my head and told him it was one of five, each one taking place when the roar of the trains going by was at the loudest.  Then he said that this woman was practising at a mark, and bade me look out or we should have a house full of anarchists.  At that, I loudly declared she should go the first thing in the morning and so got rid of him.  But I did not keep my word, and for this reason:  When I went to do her room-work as I always do immediately after breakfast, I was all smiles and full of talk till I had taken a good look at the walls for the bullet-holes I expected to see there.  But I didn’t find any, and was puzzled enough you may be sure, for those bullets must have gone somewhere and I was quite certain that they had not been fired out of the window.  I hardly dared to look at the ceiling, for she was watching me and kept me chatting and wondering till all of a sudden I noticed that one of the sofa-pillows was missing from its place.  This set me thinking, and I was about to ask her what she had done with it when my attention was drawn away by seeing among the scraps in the wastebasket I had lifted to carry out the end and corner of what looked like a partly destroyed photograph.

This was something too strange not to rouse any woman’s curiosity, but I was careful not to give it another glance till I was well out of the room.  Then, as you may believe, I drew it quickly out, to find that all the middle part was gone—­shot to pieces by those tearing