He lay there in the bed, as still as he could manage, his breath hot on the pillow, until he was certain the noises he heard could be nothing other than a foot compressing gravel and a slow, suspicious breathing. As quickly as he could, he snapped his head up and aimed it at the window, but his quarry was quicker, and he could see nobody.
He vaulted out of bed, gracefully, if it was to be told, and scurried to the window, the thought that he'd left his revolver on the bed stand immediately striking him, but it was dismissed in the mad dash to know.
The window, unfortunately, was kissed with frost. He would have to venture outdoors. Turning to retrieve his revolver and clothes, he was shocked to see the woman with whom he was sharing the bed, the woman he had dragged across half a continent and on whom he has poured as much affection as he was capable, aiming the revolver at his heart.
For a man who fancies himself a detective and a keen observer of people, this was a double shock. A pathetic, "why?" stumbled out of his mouth as she pulled the trigger.