"I didn't care--it was no business of mine. I couldn't see them, because there was a curtain in the way. There was no light in the bedroom. There was a light in the room in which I was. I put it out, so that neither of them should see my face. She might have betrayed me, you know, Simon. "He spun round when the light went out, and pushed the curtain aside. I was waiting for that. I had calculated my blow. I stabbed him. It was a good blow, though it was delivered in the dark. He only cried out once. But the woman screamed, and a dog flew at me, and I couldn't find his money. So I ran away. "And then there were only three of us who knew the secret. Then Simon died and there were only two, and now there are only Hewlett and I, and he is dead, poor fool, and I have my gold here. For God's sake give me a knife, Simon!" His fingers tore at my sleeve in his last agony, and I was tempted sorely. And it was his own knife that I had. The irony of it! He muttered once or twice and cried out in fear of the man whom he had slain. I heard him gasp a little later. Then the hand fell from my sleeve. And after that there was no further sound. "Paul!" It was the merest whisper from the wall. I thought it was a trick of my own mind. I dared not hope. "Paul! Dearest!" This was no fancy born of a delirious brain and the thick fumes of dynamite. It came from the wall a little way ahead of me. I crawled the three feet that the little cave afforded and put my hands upon the rock, feeling its surface inch by inch. There was a crevice there, not large enough to have permitted a bird to pass--the merest fissure. "Jacqueline! Is that you, dear?" I called. "Where are you, Paul?" she whispered back. "Behind the wall," I answered. "You are not hurt, Jacqueline?" "I am lying where you left me, dear. Paul, I--I heard." "You heard?" I answered dully. What did it matter now? "Why didn't you tell me, Paul? But never mind. I am so glad, dearest! Can you come through to me?" I struggled to tear the rocks away; I beat and bruised my hands in vain against them. "Soon," I muttered. "Soon. Can you breathe well, Jacqueline?" "It is all open, Paul. It is nearly dawn now." "I will come when it grows light, Jacqueline," I babbled. "When it grows light!" She did not know that it would never grow light for me. Again I flung myself against the walls of my prison, battering at them till the blood dripped from my hands. Again and again I flung myself down hopelessly, and then I tried again, clutching at every fragment that protruded into the cave. And at last, when my despair had mastered me--it grew light. For a sunbeam shot like a finger through the crevice and quivered upon the floor of the cave. And overhead, where I had never thought to seek, where I had thought three hundred feet of eternal rock pressed down on me, I saw the quiver of day through half a dozen feet of tight-packed debris from the glacier's mouth.