Stricken with amazement at the hatred in the tone, Sedgwick stood staring. But Kent stepped before the advancing man. “This won’t do,” he said firmly. “We can’t any of us afford killing.” “I can,” contradicted Mr. Blair. “You would gain nothing by it. If one of us is killed the other will finish the task. You know what I am here for, Mr. Blair. I purpose to open that coffin and then go.” “No,” said the master of Hedgerow House; and it was twenty years since his “no” had been overborne. “Yes,” returned Chester Kent quietly. Mr. Blair’s arm rose, steady and slow, with the inevitable motion of machinery. “If you shoot,” pointed out Kent, “you will rouse the house. Is there no one there from whom you wish to conceal that coffin?” The arm rose higher until the muzzle of the pistol glared, like a baleful lusterless eye, into Kent’s face. Instead of making any counter-motion with the sheriff’s revolver, the scientist turned on his heel, walked to Sedgwick, and handed him the weapon. “I’m going to open the coffin, Frank,” he announced. “That pistol of Mr. Blair’s is a target arm. It has only one shot.” “True,” put in its owner, “but I can score one hundred and twenty with it at a hundred yards’ range.” “If he should fire, Frank, wing him. And then, whatever happens, get that casket open. That is the one thing you _must_ do—for me and yourself.” “But he may kill you,” cried Sedgwick in an agony of apprehension. “He may; but I think he won’t.” “Won’t he!” muttered the older man on an indrawn breath. “I’d rather it was the other scoundrel. But either—or both.” Sedgwick stepped to within two paces of him. “Blair,” he said with a snarl, “you so much as _think_ with that trigger finger, and you’re dead!” “No, no killing, Frank,” countermanded Kent. “In his place, you’d perhaps do as he is doing.” “Don’t take any chances, Mr. Blair,” besought the sheriff. “They’re desperate characters. Look what they done to me!” “There’s a testimonial,” murmured Kent, as he picked up his spade, “for one who has always worked on the side of law and order.” He worked the blade craftily under the lid and began to pry. The cover gave slightly. Mr. Blair’s pistol sank to his side. “I should have shot before warning you,” he said bitterly. “Violating graves is, I suppose, your idea of a lawful and orderly proceeding.” The rending crackle of the hard heavy wood was his answer. Kent stooped, and struggled up bearing a shapeless heavy object in his arms. The object seemed to be swathed in sacking. Kent let it fall to the ground, where it lopped and lay. “All right,” said he, with a strong exhalation of relief. “I knew it must be. And yet—well, one never is absolute in certainty. And if I’d been wrong, I think, Frank, we could profitably have used that gun on ourselves. You can drop it, now. Come over here.” Courageous though Sedgwick was, his nerves were of a highly sensitive order. He shuddered back. “I don’t believe I can do it, Chet.”