There was a pause, then another
gesture, which he pretended not to understand.
"Your pistol!" said the voice in a whisper through the mask.
He felt the cold steel at his forehead press a little closer; he also
felt how steady it was. He was no fool. He had been in trouble before
in his lifetime; he drew out the pistol, and passed it, handle first, to
three fingers stretched out from the dark lantern.
The figure moved to where the money and the pistol were, and said, in a
whisper still:
"Go!"
He had one moment of wild eagerness to try his luck in a sudden assault,
but that passed as suddenly as it came; and with the pistol still
covering him, he moved out into the open road, with a helpless anger on
him.
A crescent moon was struggling through floes of fleecy clouds, the stars
were shining, and so the road was not entirely dark. He went about
thirty steps, then turned and looked back. The figure was still standing
there, with the pistol and the light. He walked on another twenty or
thirty steps, and once again looked back. The light and the pistol were
still there. Again he walked on. But now he heard the rumble of buggy
wheels behind. Once more he looked back: the figure and the light had
gone.
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