With nearly every breath he drew he
groaned. Overturned chairs and tables showed that he had taken part in
no ordinary struggle. The condition of the other man also testified
this.
The other man was Mr. Fielding. He was down on his knees upon the floor,
rapidly going through the contents of a dark mahogany box, which was
apparently full of papers. Scattered over the carpet by his side were
various strange-looking tools, by means of which he had forced the lock.
Mr. Fielding was not at all his usual self. His face was absolutely
colorless, and every few moments his hand went up to his shoulder-blade
and a shiver went through his whole frame. There was a faint odor of
gunpowder in the room, and somewhere near the feet of the prostrate man
lay a small shining revolver. Nevertheless, Mr. Fielding persevered in
his task.
Suddenly there came an interruption. Footsteps outside in the corridor
had paused. There was a sharp tapping at the door. The prostrate man
groaned louder than ever, and half turned over, proving that he was not
wholly unconscious. Mr. Fielding closed the box and staggered to his
feet.
He stood for a moment staring wildly at the door.
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