As he appeared at the door, taking a quick, comprehensive glance at the interior, Major Rathbone arose. "Are you aware, sir," he said, courteously, "upon whom you are intruding? This is the President's box, and no one is admitted." The intruder answered not a word. Fastening his eyes upon Mr. Lincoln, who had half turned his head to ascertain what caused the disturbance, he stepped quickly back without the door. Without this door there was an eyehole, bored it is presumed on the afternoon of the crime, while the theater was deserted by all save a few mechanics. Glancing through this orifice, John Wilkes Booth espied in a moment the precise position of the President; he wore upon his wrinkling face the pleasant embryo of an honest smile, forgetting in the mimic scene the splendid successes of our arms for which he was responsible, and the history he had filled so well. The cheerful interior was lost to J. Wilkes Booth. He did not catch the spirit of the delighted audience, of the flaming lamps flinging illumination upon the domestic foreground and the gaily set stage. He only cast one furtive glance upon the man he was to slay, and thrusting one hand in his bosom, another in his skirt pocket, drew forth simultaneously his deadly weapons. His right palm grasped a Derringer pistol, his left a dirk. Then, at a stride, he passed the threshold again, levelled his arm at the President and bent the trigger. A keen quick report and a puff of white smoke,--a close smell of powder and the rush of a dark, imperfectly outlined figure,--and the President's head dropped upon his shoulders: the ball was in his brain. [Illustration: Map. The Theatre and its Surroundings. _A_ Public School. _B_ Herndon House. _C_ Only vacant lot communicating with the Alley. _D_ Only alley outlet to F street. _E_ Bank. _X_ Restaurant. _G_ Newspaper Office. _H_ Model House. _I_ House to which the President was taken. _K_ Alley through which the Murderer escaped.]