“There will be none on my part,” he said calmly. “It's Danglar, isn't it? I am surely not mistaken. Parson Danglar, alias--ah! Please don't do that!” It seemed to Rhoda Gray that it happened in the space of time it might take a watch to tick: The newcomer stooping to the floor, and lifting the candle with the obvious intention of thrusting it into the Adventurer's face--a glint of metal, as the Adventurer whipped a revolver from the side pocket of his coat--and then, how they got there she could not tell, it was done so adroitly and swiftly, the thumb and forefinger of the Adventurer's left hand had closed on the candle wick and snuffed it out, and the garret was in darkness. There was a savage oath, a snarl of rage from the man whom the Adventurer had addressed as Danglar; then an instant s silence; and then the Adventurer's voice--from the doorway: “I beg of you not to vent your disappointment on the lady--Danglar. I assure you that she is in no way responsible for my visit here, and, as far as that goes, never saw me before in her life. Also, it is only fair to tell you, in case you should consider leaving here too hurriedly, that I am really not at all a bad shot--even in the dark. I bid you good-night, Danglar--and you my dear lady!” Danglar's voice rose again in a flood of profane rage. He stumbled and moved around in the dark. “Damn it!” he shouted. “Where are the matches? Where's the lamp? This cursed candle's put enough to the bad already! Do you hear? Where's the lamp?” “It's over dere on de floor, bust to pieces,” mumbled Rhoda Gray. “Youse'll find the matches on de washstand, an--” “What's the idea?” There was a sudden, steel-like note dominating the angry tones. “What are you handing me that hog-wash language for? Eh? It's damned queer! There's been damned queer doings around here ever since last night! See? What's the idea?” Rhoda Gray felt her face whiten in the darkness. It was the slip she had feared; the slip that she had had to take the chance of making, and which, if it were not retrieved, and instantly retrieved, now that it was made, meant discovery, and after that--She shivered a little. “You needn't lose your head, just because you've lost your temper!” she said tartly, in a guarded whisper. “The door into the hall is still wide open, isn't it?” “Oh, all right!” he said, his tones a sort of sullen admission that her retort was justified. “But even now your voice sounds off color.” Rhoda Gray bridled. “Does it?” she snapped at him. “I've got a cold. Maybe you'd get one too, and maybe your voice would be off color, if you had to live in a dump like this, and--”