“When the house was quiet, I put on a pair of list slippers and made my way to Mr. Osmond’s bedroom. The door was unlocked and I went in. A night-lamp was burning on the dressing-table. The full moon shone in through the uncurtained window, and its rays slanted right across the sleeper’s face. He lay there, sleeping the sleep of the drunken, with one hand clenched, and a frown on his face as if he were still threatening Mr. Dering. It was hardly the work of a minute to possess myself of the keys. In another minute the dressing-case was opened and the ring my own. Mr. Osmond’s portmanteau stood invitingly open: what more natural than that I should desire to turn over its contents lightly and delicately? In such cases I am possessed by the simple curiosity of a child. I was down on my knees before the portmanteau, admiring this, that, and the other, when, to my horror, I heard the noise of coming footsteps. No concealment was possible, save that afforded by the long curtains which shaded one of the windows. Next moment I was safely hidden behind them. “The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and then some one entered the room. The sleeping man still breathed heavily. Now and then he moaned in his sleep. All my fear of being found out could not keep me from peeping out of my hiding-place. What I saw was my master, Mr. Kester St. George, standing over the sleeping man, with a look on his face that I had never seen there before. He stood thus for a full minute, and then he came round to the near side of the bed, and seemed to be looking for Mr. Osmond’s keys. In a little while he saw them in the dressing-bag where I had left them. Then he crossed to the other side of the room and proceeded to try them one by one, till he had found the right one, in the lock of Mr. Osmond’s writing-case. He opened the case, took out of it Mr. Osmond’s cheque book, and from that he tore either one or two blank cheques. He had just relocked the writing-case when Mr. Osmond suddenly awoke and started up in bed. ‘Villain! what are you doing there?’ he cried, as he flung back the bedclothes. But before he could set foot to the floor, Mr. St. George sprang at his throat, and pinned him down almost as easily as if he had been a boy. What happened during the next minute I hardly know how to describe. It would seem that Mr. Osmond was in the habit of sleeping with a dagger under his pillow. At all events, there was one there on this particular night. As soon as he found himself pinned down in bed, his hand sought for and found this dagger, and next moment he made a sudden stab with it at the breast of Mr. St. George. But my master was too quick for him. There was an instant’s struggle—a flash—a cry—and—you may guess the rest.