With firm fingers now, he screwed on the top of the flask and re-lit the candle stump. Then he took the marked phial from the cupboard shelf and set it on the table. From a side pocket he took the little oil-bottle belonging to a travelling gun-case and unscrewed the top of that. And now, with cunning knowledge, he takes the thick, grey woollen scarf from his neck and drenches a certain portion of its folds with raw whiskey from his flask. He binds the muffler round the throat and nose in such fashion that the saturated portion confines all the outlets of his breathing. One must risk nothing one's self when one plays and conjures with the spawn and corruptions of death! . . . It is done, done with infinite nicety and care--no trembling fingers now. The vial is unstopped, the tube within has poured a drop or two of its contents into the oil-bottle, the projecting needle of which is damp with death. The cupboard is closed and locked again. Ah! there is candle grease upon the table! It is scraped up, to the minutest portion, with the blade of the shooting knife. Then he is out upon the balcony again. One last task remains. It is to close the long windows so that the catch will fall into its rusty holder and no trace be left of its ever having been opened. This is not easy. It requires preparation, dexterity and thought. Cunning fingers must use the thin end of the knife to bend the little brass bracket which is to receive the falling catch. It must be bent outwards, and in the bending a warning creak suggests that the screws are parting from the rotten wood. But it is done at last, surely dexterously. No gentlemanly burglar of the magazines could have done it better. . . . There is no moon now. It is necessary to feel one's way in silence over the lawn and reach the outer gate. This is done successfully, the Fiend is a good quick valet-fiend to-night and aids at every point. The gate is closed with a gentle "click," there is only the "pad, pad" of the night-comer's footsteps passing along the dark village street towards the Old House with poison in his pocket and murder in his heart. Outside his own gate, Lothian's feet assume a brisk and confidential measure. He rattles the latch of the drive gate and tries to whistle in a blithe undertone. Bedroom windows may be open, it will be as well that his low, contented whistle--as of one returning from healthy night-sport--may be heard. His lips are too cracked and salt to whistle, however. He tries to hum the burden of a song, but only a faint "croak, croak," sounds in the cold, quiet night--for the wind has fallen now. Not far away, behind the palings of his little yard, The Dog Trust whines mournfully. Once he whines, and then with a full-throat and opened muzzle Dog Trust bays the moon behind its cloud-pall. When he hears the footfall of one he knows and loves, Dog Trust greets it with low, anxious whines.