He could distinctly hear the loud pulsation and wild, excited beatings of his own vile heart as there he stood with wild eyes peering up the broad dark staircase.

“All is still,” he said, and prepared to ascend to the sick man’s room.

Each step was taken cautiously, and with cat-like softness.

But the stairs were old, and creaked with a warning sound.

He had reached the first landing, and stood in a dark recess to recover his breath.

Onward he went.

He could see the light streaming through the keyhole of the old man’s bed-room.

There remained now but one more flight of stairs.

The first step he took was arrested by an ominous click, which sounded like the cocking of a gun!

Bolton’s eyes now glared like two burning coals in the darkness around him.

His hand upon the bannister trembled, and a cold sweat flowed from every pore.

A sense of deadly horror seized him, but he knew not why.

He felt as if some unnatural and hideous being was watching him, and dogging his noiseless footsteps.

What could it be?

He knew not.

Some dreadful fear compelled him to crouch down low upon the landing from sheer exhaustion.

Bang! bang! suddenly burst out upon his astonished ears, and awoke loud echoes in the old farm-house.

A double-barrelled gun had been discharged at him, loaded with buck-shot, and by some one concealed at the head of the stairs.

A loud groan followed the flashes and report.

CHAPTER III.

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