Laying Helen Cumberly upon one of the raised divans, with her head resting upon a silken cushion, Max, teeth tightly clenched and dreadfully conscious that his strength was failing him, waited for Gianapolis. Out from the corridor the Greek came staggering, and Max now perceived that he was bleeding profusely from a wound in the breast.
“She came back,” whispered Gianapolis, clutching at the Frenchman for support…“the hellcat!…I did not know…that…Miss…Cumberly was here. As God is my witness I did not know! But I followed…her—Mahâra…thank God I did! She has finished me, I think, but”—he lowered the crooked eyes to the form of Helen Cumberly—“never mind…Saints!”
He reeled and sank upon his knees. He clutched at the edge of his coat and raised it to his lips, wherefrom blood was gushing forth. Max stooped eagerly, for as the Greek had collapsed upon the floor, he had heard the rattle of keys.
“She had…the keys,” whispered Gianapolis. “They have…tabs…upon them…Mrs. Leroux…number 3 B. The door to the stair”—very, very slowly, he inclined his head toward the ebony door near which Max was standing—“is marked X. The door…at the top—into garage…B.”
“Tell me,” said Max, his arm about the dying
