faint rustle, made apparently by plaster-dust falling from the partition wall where the bullet had pierced it. Mr. Frost, roused from sound sleep, sat up and inquired, "What was that?"
"Somebody has just fired a revolver through our partition," I replied in a low tone.
"What time is it?"
"About half-past two. Keep quiet and listen."
With strained attention we waited fully two minutes without hearing the faintest sound. The hotel had become as still as before, and yet I knew that there were four men in the room from which the pistol-shot had come. If one of them had committed suicide — which was the first thought that flashed through my mind — why did not the others get up and strike a light? The report of the revolver was loud enough to rouse the whole hotel, and the perfect stillness that followed it was even more extraordinary and mysterious than the shot itself.
"Let's call to them and find out what the matter is," whispered Mr. Frost.
"No," I replied in an undertone; "let somebody else find out. We're not hurt."
I had great fear of becoming involved in some mystery or tragedy that would give the police an excuse for taking us into custody and overhauling our baggage or summoning us as witnesses, and it seemed to me best to "lie stiller than water and lower than grass," as the Russian peasants say, and await developments. Whatever might be the significance of the pistol-shot, it was none of our business unless the weapon had been aimed at us — and that seemed extremely improbable.
After the lapse of perhaps three minutes, I heard in the officers' room the clicking made by the cocking and uncocking of a revolver, followed in a few seconds by low whispering. Then one man in an undertone asked another how many more cartridges he had. Some inaudible reply was made,
