“How can I tell you that?  Of what are you speaking?”

Her voice was low and musical; that of a cultured woman.  She evidently recognized the futility of further subterfuge in this respect.

“You know quite well of what I am speaking!  You know that you can tell me if any one can!  The fact that you go disguised alone condemns you!  Why should I remind you of our previous meetings—­of the links which bind you to the history of the Prophet’s slipper?” She shuddered and closed her eyes.  “Your present attitude is a sufficient admission!”

She stood silent before me, with something pitiful in her pose—­a wonderfully pretty woman, whose disarranged hair and dilapidated hat could not mar her beauty; whose clumsy, ill-fitting garments could not conceal her lithe grace.

Our altercation had not thus far served to arouse any of the inhabitants and on that stuffy landing, beneath the flickering gaslight, we stood alone, a group of two which epitomized strange things.

Then, with that quietly dramatic note which marks real life entrances and differentiates them from the loudly acclaimed episodes of the stage, a third actor took up his cue.

“Both hands, Mr. Cavanagh!” directed an American voice.

Nerves atwitch, I started around in its direction.

From behind the slightly opened door of No. 48 protruded a steel barrel, pointed accurately at my head!

I hesitated, glancing from the woman toward the open door.

“Do it quick!” continued the voice incisively.  “You are up against a desperate man, Mr. Cavanagh.  Raise your hands.  Carneta, relieve Mr. Cavanagh of his gun!”

Instantly the girl, with deft fingers, had obtained possession of my revolver.

“Step inside,” said the crisp, strident voice.  Knowing myself helpless and quite convinced that I was indeed in the clutches of desperate people, I entered the doorway, the door being held open from within.  She whom I had heard called Carneta followed.  The door was reclosed; and I found myself in a perfectly bare and dim passageway.  From behind me came the order—­

“Go right ahead!”

Into a practically unfurnished room, lighted by one gas jet, I walked.  Some coarse matting hung before the two windows and a fairly large grip stood on the floor against one wall.  A gas-ring was in the hearth, together with a few cheap cooking utensils.

I turned and faced the door.  First entered Carneta, carrying the basket; then came a man with a revolver in his left hand and his right arm strapped across his chest and swathed in bandages.  One glance revealed the fact that his right hand had been severed—­ revealed the fact, though I knew it already, that my captor was Earl Dexter.

He looked even leaner than when I had last seen him.  I had no doubt that his ghastly wound had occasioned a tremendous loss of blood.  His gaunt face was positively emaciated, but the steely gray eyes had lost nothing of their brightness.  There was a good deal about Mr. Earl Dexter, the cracksman, that any man must have admired.