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scending the stairs, with a pistol in one hand which Jib didn't see, and a very dim light in the other.

Jib was silent, breathless, and looked—oh, how he looked at the figure. His eyes were nearly out of his head, and, while his hands were uplifted, and his fingers were extremely wide apart, his lips described a perfect circle, and his knees smote each other, as if each patella wished to knock the other out.

As the figure—which looked very ghastly—approached, Jib retreated—correctly, retreated; and when he had got as far as he could get, without going through the street-door, he saw the figure—which treated him with the utmost contempt, taking no more notice of him than if he had been nothing—stalk into the dining-room as coolly as if he absolutely paid the rent and taxes.

The position Jib occupied then was awkward. The figure—which of course he believed to be a ghost, for Jib's faith in supernatural appearances was firm—had left the dining-room door wide open, and situated as he was then, nature swindled him into the belief that he must of necessity pass this door, which appeared to him, then, to have an unexampled appetite. It never, for a moment, struck him that he might open the front door, and let himself out. No; he felt that he must pass that door, and how to manage it he couldn't exactly tell. He never before felt so much confused. His intellects were usually clear enough—he had, at all events, been accustomed to flatter himself that they were commonly as clear as those of any man in Europe—but at that particular period they really did appear to be completely upset. He couldn't tell what to make of it. He felt very ill. A faintness came over him, and yet he was conscious—perfectly conscious—at least of this, that the figure was then in the room.

"Courage!" he exclaimed, confidentially to himself, and the word seemed to have a great effect upon his nerves; for he stood upright boldly and breathed again, and absolutely made up his mind to pass the door; but no sooner had he taken the first courageous step, than he heard the report of a pistol and fell.

That he had been wounded, he firmly believed: where, he couldn't tell; nor did he much care then to know, but that he had a wound somewhere about his person, was in his view abundantly clear.

"Murder!" cried the cook, at this moment, above. "James!—master! murder!"

The sound of a voice reinspired Jib, and he felt quite valiant again and rose, and actually darted past the dining-room door, and rushed up stairs in a fit of desperation to the cook, who, conceiving him to be some other gentleman, backed in and fastened the door.

"Cook, cook!" he cried, "cook!"

"Who's there?" she demanded, for she did not immediately recognise his voice.

"Me! me!—James!—me!" he replied; "let me in."

At any other time cook would not have done this; but her characteristic delicacy was overcome by fear. She wanted protection: she knew