Mr. Gilmore was blessed with a steadiness of nerve known to but few men, yet the hour and the occasion had their influence with him. He stood erect: now the steps which had paused for a moment seemed to recede; it was as if the intruder, whoever he might be, had come almost to the front door and had then, for some inexplicable reason, gone back to the street. Gilmore even imagined him as standing there with his hand on the latch of the gate. He was tempted to rouse his two companions, but he did not, and then, as he still stood with his senses tense, he heard the steps again approach the front door. With a glance in the direction of the colonel and his nephew to assure himself that they still slept, Gilmore rather shamefacedly slipped his right hand under the tails of his coat, tiptoed into the hall and paused there close by the parlor door. The steps outside continued, he heard the porch floor give under a weight, and then some one rapped softly on the door. Gilmore waited an instant; the rap was repeated; he stepped to the door, shot the bolt and opened it. The storm had passed; it was now cold and clear, a brilliant, starlit, winter's night. He saw the man on the porch clearly as he stood there with the world in white at his back. Gilmore instantly recognized him, and his hand came from under the tails of his coat; he closed the door softly. "What sort of a joke is this, Marsh?" he demanded in a whisper. "Joke?" repeated the lawyer in a thick husky voice, as he took an uncertain step toward the gambler. "Your coming here at this hour; if it isn't a joke, what is it?" Gilmore saw that his face was flushed with drink while his eyes shone with a light he had never seen in them before. He must have been abroad in the storm for some time, for the snow had lodged in the rim of his hat and his shoulders were still white with it; now and again a paroxysm of shivering seized him. "Whisky chill," thought the gambler. "Come in, Marsh!" he said, but Langham seemed to draw back instinctively. "No, I guess not, Andy!" and a sickly pallor overspread his face. "What's the matter with you?" demanded Gilmore. "I want to see you," said the other. "I can't go home yet." He swayed heavily. "I need to talk to you on a matter of business. Come on out--come on off of here;" and he led the way down the porch steps. "Whom have you in there with you?" he questioned when he had drawn Gilmore a little way along the path. "The colonel and Watt Harbison." "No one else?" "No." "Do they know I'm here?" "I guess not, they were asleep two minutes ago." "That's good. I don't want to see them, I want to see you." "Wouldn't it keep, Marsh?" asked Gilmore. "No, sir, it wouldn't keep; I want to tell you just what I think of you, you damn--" "Oh, that will keep, Marsh, any time will do for that; anyway, you have told me something like that already! When you sober up--" "Do you think I'm drunk?" "I don't think anything about it."