He went on, rather reluctantly, and by and by reached the broad square in front of the presidio.  The old building was clear in the moonlight; Kit could see a sentry on the terrace and a faint glow in the slit in the wall that marked Adam’s room.  It was hardly two-hundred yards off and he would be safe before he reached the arch, but a grove of small palms and shrubs ran between him and the square.  There were rails behind the trees and the nearest opening was some distance off.  A high blank wall threw a dark shadow that stretched across the road by the rails and met the gloom of the trees.

Kit looked about, without stopping or turning his head much.  There was nobody in sight, but he somehow felt that he was not alone.  It was a disturbing, and apparently an illogical, feeling that he must not indulge, and pulling himself together he went on, with his fist clenched.  He was not far from the gate, and although he listened hard could only hear his own steps and voices in a neighboring street.  Yet his nerves tingled and his muscles got tense.  In front, a thick, dark mass that looked like a clump of euphorbia or cactus stood beside the path, and just beyond it a bright beam of moonlight shone between the drooping branches of the palms.

He thought the spot the beam touched was dangerous.  As he crossed it his figure would be strongly illuminated and he would have his back to the dark bush.  He wanted to move aside and go round the bush, but this might give somebody time to spring out and get between him and the gate.  The gate was close by and he was strangely anxious to reach it.  For all that, he was not going to indulge his imagination.

He plunged into the gloom, without deviating from his path, and conquered a nervous impulse that urged him to run.  When he had nearly passed the bush he thought he heard a movement and a thick stalk of the cactus shook.  Half instinctively, Kit leaped forward and felt something soft brush against his shoulder.  As he swung round, in the moonlight, with his mouth set and his hand drawn back to strike, he saw a blanket on the ground.  There was nothing else and he breathed hard as he searched the gloom.  The blanket had not been there before.

Next moment, a dark figure sprang from the shadow and a knife flashed in the moonlight; then he heard a heavy report and a puff of smoke blew past his head.  The figure swerved and, staggering awkwardly, fell with a heavy thud.  It did not move afterwards, and while Kit gazed at it dully a man in white uniform ran past and stooped beside the fellow on the ground.  Kit vacantly noted that a little smoke curled from the muzzle of his pistol.

“One cartridge is enough,” he said coolly.  “Your worship did not escape by much.”

Another rural came out of the bushes and when they turned over the body Kit saw a dark face and a long, thin knife clenched in a brown hand.  He understood now that the blanket had been meant to entangle his arm or head; half-breed peons often carry a rolled-up blanket of good quality on their shoulder.