Harold Ward

“ The storm was increasing in violence every minute and The Killer was half frozen. Yet he stood with hand on the knob, making no effort to enter until his stiffened fingers had sought out the gun which nestled snugly in his outside pocket. ”

“ The Killer twisted his body to one side of the opening where he would be partly out of range.
"It's not William," he answered gruffly. "'’m a stranger lost in the storm. Are you alone?"
The woman gave a startled cry, "Yes—Oh! God, yes!" she answered. "And I'm sick—awful sick. Please help me."
“Are you armed?” asked The Killer,
Without waiting for an answer, he picked up the lamp and, stuffing the gun back into his pocket—but with fingers still locked around the butt—he pushed aside the curtain and entered. ”

“ A slab of bacon hanging over a can of flour, a box beside the stove filled with great chunks of wood—all told of comforts that were his for the taking. A pair of slippers, run down at the heel, and an apron thrown across the back of a chair showed that a woman’s presence had graced the room not long before. ”