She bent over the sleeping man. At the first glance her heart sank, for he had not taken off his boots. But as she looked hard at him her suspicions died within her. He lay on his back with his coarse, emaciated face towards her, his mouth open, showing his broken teeth. The sleep of utter exhaustion was upon him. She could have killed him as he lay. He was not acting. He was really asleep. She crept out of the room again, leaving the door ajar, and went back to the kitchen. Hardly had she sat down when she heard the sound again. It was too faint to reach her except when she was in the kitchen. She knew now where it came from--_the door_. Some one was picking the lock. The instant the sleeping man was out of her sight she suspected him again. Was he really asleep after all? He had not taken off his boots. When she came back from making his bed she had found him standing by the mantelshelf. Had he unloaded the pistol in her absence? Would he presently get up, and open the door to his confederates? Her mind rose clear and cold and unflinching. She took up the pistol, and then laid it down again. She wanted a more noiseless weapon. She got out her husband's great clasp-knife from the open tool-box, took the lamp, and crept back to the man's bedside. She should be able to kill him--certainly she should be able to kill him; and then she should have the pistol for the other one. But he still slept heavily. When she saw him again, again her suspicions fell from her. She _knew_ he was asleep. She shook him by the shoulder, noiselessly, but with increasing violence, until he opened his eyes with a groan. Then only she remembered that she was shaking his wounded arm. He saw the knife in her hand, and raised his left arm as if to ward off the blow. "Listen," she whispered, close to his ear. "Don't speak. There is a man trying to break into the house. You must get up and help me." He stared at her, vaguely at first, but with growing intelligence. The food and sleep had restored him somewhat to himself. He sat up on the couch. "Take off my boots," he whispered; "I tried, and could not." Her last suspicion of him vanished. She cut the laces with her knife, and dragged his boots off. They stuck to his feet, and bits of the woollen socks came off with them. They had evidently not been taken off for weeks. While she did it, he whispered, "Why should any one be wanting to break in? There's nothing here to take." "Yes, there is," she said. "There's a lot of money." "Good Lord! Where?" "Under the floor in the kitchen." "Then it's the kitchen they'll make for. You bet they know where the money is, if they know it's here. Are there many of 'em?" "I don't know." "Well, we shall know soon enough," said the man. He had become alert, keen. "Have you any pistols?" "Yes, one." "Fetch it, but don't make a sound, mind." She stole away, and returned with the pistol. She would have put it into his hand, but he pushed it away.