For a long time he remained very still, kneeling between clumps of frosted willows. A bird, obviously disturbed by the shots, kept crying from the pines. He laid the lantern aside and withdrew the revolver. I can't imagine that you’ll be needing this but. . .

He started forward again, half crouching along a furrow. There were deer tracks across the snowbound field, and pools of ice. At twenty yards he paused again, waiting for the sound of Craven's voice ... or a last shot from the window above. But there was nothing except that door.

It was slightly ajar, waiting for the slightest nudge. He pressed it open with the palm of his hand, then stepped back against the timber siding. Light came from an upstairs room, but the entrance was dark.

He entered, feeling his way along the rough plaster. It was a large room with looming shapes of furniture, a cold stove, and the outline of a staircase rising to a landing. There were sounds of a ticking clock, dripping water. Then, with the wind from an open window gently lifting a curtain, he finally saw Craven.

He was seated in the corner, half lost in shadows. One hand casually dangled from the arm of a chair, the other lay across his knee. There were fragments of a shattered glass at his feet, and something definitely wrong with his eyes—one literally bulging out of the socket, the other staring into the middle distance.

"Hydraulic pressure," Michard said softly. "A physical reaction to the impact."

Gray turned slowly, to the landing above. Michard was a silhouette against the light from an oil lamp, the shotgun resting on his hip.

"You killed him..." Not able to believe it... "You actually killed him."

"Not just that one, Nicholas. I killed them all... all your damned English spycatchers."

The scream that came out of Gray filled the whole room as he swung the revolver around, firing blindly.

Michard stepped aside, leveling his shotgun again. The first blast shattered the banister. The second narrowly missed as Gray threw himself back through a blackened doorway.

He took stock. It was a still life. The room was a windowless scullery with brick walls and a stone floor. There were tins of preserves on the shelves, smoked meat, and a wheel of cheese. There was also something in the corner, a shape without form ending in another bloody torso.

"You can't escape from there, Nicholas. Your only exit is in my line of fire."

There were bloodstains on the far wall, and Gray realized that Michard must have taken them all by surprise—three dead. He slipped off his coat and sagged to the floor. Four shots left. He let his head sag back to the bricks—one way out, Michard's line of fire. He shut his eyes. Nothing came.

"Nicholas, this is pointless . . . Nicholas, do you hear me?"