“And this,” holding up the paper, “tells you that they ken as I ken noo, as maist o' them ha' kent this mony a day, that your Wullie, Red Wull--the Terror--” “Go on.” “Is--” “Yes.” “The Black Killer.” It was spoken. The frayed string was snapped at last. The little man's hand flashed to the bottle that stood before him. “Ye--liar!” he shrieked, and threw it with all his strength at the boy's head. David dodged and ducked, and the bottle hurtled over his shoulder. Crash! it whizzed into the lamp behind, and broke on the wall beyond, its contents trickling down the wall to the floor. For a moment, darkness. Then the spirits met the lamp's smouldering wick and blazed into flame. By the sudden light David saw his father on the far side the table, pointing with crooked forefinger. By his side Red Wull was standing alert, hackles up, yellow fangs bared, eyes lurid; and, at his feet, the wee brown mouse lay still and lifeless. “Oot o' ma hoose! Back to Kenmuir! Back to yer ----” The unpardonable word, unmistakable, hovered for a second on his lips like some foul bubble, and never burst. “No mither this time!” panted David, racing round the table. “Wullie!” The Terror leapt to the attack; but David overturned the table as he ran, the blunderbuss crashing to the floor; it fell, opposing a momentary barrier in the dog's path. “Stan' off, ye--!” screeched the little man, seizing a chair in both hands; “stan' off, or I'll brain ye!” But David was on him. “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” Again the Terror came with a roar like the sea. But David, with a mighty kick catching him full on the jaw, repelled the attack. Then he gripped his father round the waist and lifted him from the ground. The little man, struggling in those iron arms, screamed, cursed, and battered at the face above him, kicking and biting in his frenzy. “The Killer! wad ye ken wha's the Killer? Go and ask 'em at Kenmuir! Ask yer ----” David swayed slightly, crushing the body in his arms till it seemed every rib must break; then hurled it from him with all the might of passion. The little man fell with a crash and a groan. The blaze in the corner flared, flickered, and died. There was hell-black darkness, and silence of the dead. David stood against the wall, panting, every nerve tightstrung as the hawser of a straining ship. In the corner lay the body of his father, limp and still; and in the room one other living thing was moving. He clung close to the wall, pressing it with wet hands. The horror of it all, the darkness, the man in the corner, that moving something, petrified him. “Feyther!” he whispered. There was no reply. A chair creaked at an invisible touch. Something was creeping, stealing, crawling closer. David was afraid. “Feyther!” he whispered in hoarse agony, “are yo' hurt?”