change took place, half automatically. Associations, I suppose. Constable, your brother happened upon me in an evil hour."
"Yep," said O'Bryant gruffly.
"And that is the end," Zoberg said. "The end of the story and, I suppose, the end of me."
"You bet it is," the constable assured him. "You came with the judge to finish your rotten work. But we're finishing it for you."
"One moment," interjected Judge Pursuivant, and his fire-lit face betrayed a perplexed frown. "The story fails to explain one important thing."
"Does it so?" prompted Zoberg, inclining toward him with a show of negligent grace.
"If you were able to free yourself and kill Mr. Gird——"
"By heaven, that's right.'" I broke in. "You were chained, Zoberg, to Susan and to your chair. I'd go bail for the strength and tightness of those handcuffs."
He grinned at each of us in turn and held out his hands with their manacles. "Is it not obvious?" he inquired.
We looked at him, a trifle blankly I suppose, for he chuckled once again.
"Another employment of the ectoplasm, that useful substance of change," he said gently. "At will my arms and legs assume thickness, and hold the rings of the confining irons wide. Then, when I wish, they grow slender again, and——"
He gave his hands a sudden flirt, and the bracelets fell from them on the instant. He pivoted and ran like a deer.
"Shoot!" cried the judge, and O'Bryant whipped the big gun from his holster.
Zoberg was almost within a vine-laced clump of bushes when O'Bryant fired. I heard a shrill scream, and saw Zoberg falter and drop to his hands and knees.
We were all starting forward. I paused a moment to put Susan behind me, and in that moment O'Bryant and Pursuivant sprang ahead and came up on either side of Zoberg. He was still alive, for he writhed up to a kneeling position and made a frantic clutch at the judge's coat. O'Bryant, so close that he barely raised his hand and arm, fired a second time.
Zoberg spun around somehow on his knees, stiffened and screamed. Perhaps I should say that he howled. In his voice was the inarticulate agony of a beast wounded to death. Then he collapsed.
Both men stooped above him, cautious but thorough in their examination. Finally Judge Pursuivant straightened up and faced toward us.
"Keep Miss Susan there with you," he warned me. "He's dead, and not a pretty sight."
Slowly they came bade to us. Pursuivant was thoughtful, while O'Bryant, Zoberg's killer, seemed cheerful for the first time since I had met him. He even smiled at me, as Punch would smile after striking a particularly telling blow with his cudgel. Rubbing his pistol caressingly with his palm, he stowed it carefully away.
"I'm glad that's over," he admitted. "My brother can rest easy in his grave."
"And we have our work cut out for us," responded the judge. "We must decide just how much of the truth to tell when we make a report."
O'Bryant dipped his head in sage acquiescence. "You're right," he rumbled. "Yes, sir, you're right."
"Would you believe me," said the judge, "if I told you that I knew it was Zoberg, almost from the first?"
But Susan and I, facing each other, were beyond being surprized, even at that.
[THE END]
W. T.—7
