Yet as I lay there, my eyes anxiously scanning those bare, solid walls, my brain working coolly, the problem appeared unsolvable.

The door, of hard-wood, fitting tightly into the jambs, was hopeless,--particularly with Billie outside, loaded revolver in hand, nerved to the shooting point.

I climbed again to the window, but the casing was solidly spiked into position, and I could barely press my head through the aperture into the open air.

It was a thirty-foot sheer drop to the hard gravel of the road beneath, the nearest tree limb a dozen feet distant, with the roof edge far beyond reach of the hand.

I sat down in the chair, the blue smoke curling overhead, floating out the window, my eyes studying the red-tinted side walls, as I endeavored to recall each detail of the house's architecture, and the exact location of this particular room.
I had turned to the left at the head of the stairway, passing by at least three doors.