I clambered over the rail, assured by this first glance that the room was empty, and succeeded in lifting the heavy sash a few inches without any disturbing noise.  Then it stuck, and, even as I ventured to exert my strength to greater extent to force it upward, the single door directly opposite, evidently leading into the hall, was flung violently open, and I sank back out of view, yet instantly aware that the first party to enter was Joe Kirby.

Without venturing to lift my eyes to the level of the opening, I could nevertheless imagine his movements, while the sound of his voice when he spoke was as distinct as though I stood beside him.  He strode forward to the table, striking the wooden top angrily with his fist and knocking something crashing to the floor.

“You know where she is, don’t you?” he asked, in the same threatening tone he had used without.

“Of course I do; didn’t I help put her there?” It was Carver who replied, standing in the open doorway.

“Then bring the hussy in here.  By God!  I’ll make the wench talk, if I have to choke it out of her; she’ll learn what it means to be a nigger.”

The door closed, and Kirby strode across to the fireplace, muttering to himself, and stood there, an arm on the mantel, nervously stirring up the dead ashes with one foot.  Plainly enough the events of the night had overcome all his boasted self-control, his gambler’s coolness, and the real underlying brutality of his nature demanded expression.  He yearned to crush, and hurt something—­something that would cringe before him.  I ventured to raise my head cautiously, so as to gain a glimpse of the man, and was surprised to note the change in his face.  It was as though he had removed a mask.  Heretofore, always holding the winning hand, and able to sneer at opposition, he had always in my presence assumed an air of cold bravado, insolent and sarcastic; but now, baffled in his plans, checkmated by a girl, and believing himself unobserved, the gambler had given way to his true nature, both expression and manner exhibiting a temper beyond control.

I had but a moment in which to observe this new exhibit of the man’s personality, for almost immediately Carver flung the door of the room open, and Kirby swung impatiently about to face the entrance.  Except for a possibility of thus attracting the attention of the newcomer, I was in no special danger of being detected by those within.  Nevertheless I sank lower, with eyes barely above the edge of the sill, eager to witness this meeting, and especially interested in gaining a first view of their prisoner.  Carver thrust her forward, but remained himself blocking the doorway.  I use the word thrust, for I noted the grip of his hand on her arm, yet in truth she instantly stepped forward herself, her bearing in no way devoid of pride and dignity, her head held erect, her eyes fearlessly seeking the face of Kirby.  Their glances met, and she advanced to the table,