He crouched, with every nerve and muscle ready, and a moment later he would have relieved the tension with some sort of cry, had he not realized that it was the wooden Swiss clock above the cabinet, beginning to strike the hour.
The sound came to an end, and Durkin was assuring himself that it could now be neither Pobloff nor the valet, when a second sound sent a tingle of apprehension through his frame.
It was the blue spurt of a match that suddenly cut the blackness before him.

The fool--he was striking a light! Durkin crouched lower, and watched the flame as it grew on the darkness.

The direct glare of it made him blink a little, but he swung his revolver barrel just above it, and a little to the right.

He was more confident now, and quite collected.

However it all turned out, it could not be much worse than starving to death, unknown and alone in some public square of Monaco.
As the tiny luminous circle flowered into wider flame the match was held higher.