Eight!…
The study was plunged in darkness!
Uttering a sob—a cry of agony and horror that came from her very soul—the woman stood upright and turned to face toward the door, clutching the sheet of paper in one rigid hand.
Through the leaded panes of the window above the writing-table swept a silvern beam of moonlight. It poured, searchingly, upon the fur-clad figure swaying by the table; cutting through the darkness of the room like some huge scimitar, to end in a pallid pool about the woman’s shadow on the center of the Persian carpet.
Coincident with her sobbing cry—Nine! boomed Big Ben; ten!…
Two hands—with outstretched, crooked, clutching fingers—leapt from the darkness into the light of the moonbeam.
“God! Oh, God!” came a frenzied, rasping shriek—“Mr. King!”
Straight at the bare throat leapt the yellow hands; a gurgling cry rose—fell—and died away.
Gently, noiselessly, the lady of the civet fur sank upon the carpet by the table; as she fell, a dim black figure bent over her. The tearing of paper told of the note being snatched from her frozen grip; but never for a moment did the face or the form of her assailant encroach upon the moonbeam.
Batlike, this second and terrible visitant avoided the light.
