Truxton King

Then the storm abated; the soft drip of rain from the eaves of the car beat a monotonous tattoo in the pools below; the raw winds from the mountains blew stealthily in the wake of the tornado, picking up the waste that had been left behind only to cast it aside with a moan of derision.

Something stirred in the far end of the car. A still, small noise as of something alive that moved with the utmost wariness. A heavy, breathing body crept stealthily across the intervening space; so quietly that a mouse could have made but little less noise.

Then it stopped; there was not a sound inside the car except the deep, regular breathing of Truxton King. The girl's respiration was so faint that one might have thought she did not breathe at all. Again the sly, cautious movement of a heavy body; the creaking of a joint or two, the sound of a creature rising from a crouching position to the upright; then the gentle rubbing of cloth, the fumbling of fingers in a stubborn pocket.

An instant later the bluish flame of a sulphur match struggled for life, growing stronger and brighter in the hand of a man who stood above the sleepers.