“It was the switching on of the full glare of the electric lights in the art-gallery,” Craig shouted.  “The other person must have got up to the room quicker than I expected.  Here goes.”

A loud explosion took place, apparently on the very window-sill of our room.  Almost at the same instant there was a crash of glass from the museum.

We sprang to the window, I expecting to see Kennedy injured, Spencer expecting to see his costly museum a mass of smoking ruins.  Instead we saw nothing of the sort.  On the window-ledge was a peculiar little instrument that looked like a miniature field-gun with an elaborate system of springs and levers to break the recoil.

Craig had turned from it so suddenly that he actually ran full tilt into us.  “Come on,” he cried breathlessly, bolting from the room, and seizing Dr. Lith by the arm as he did so.  “Dr. Lith, the keys to the museum, quick!  We must get there before the fumes clear away.”

He was taking the stairs two at a time, dragging the dignified curator with him.

In fewer seconds than I can tell it we were in the museum and mounting the broad staircase to the art-gallery.  An overpowering gas seemed to permeate everything.

“Stand back a moment,” cautioned Kennedy as we neared the door.  “I have just shot in here one of those asphyxiating bombs which the Paris police invented to war against the Apaches and the motor-car bandits.  Open all the windows back here and let the air clear.  Walter, breathe as little of it as you can—­but—­come here—­do you see?—­over there, near the other door—­a figure lying on the floor?  Make a dash in after me and carry it out.  There is just one thing more.  If I am not back in a minute come in and try to get me.”

He had already preceded me into the stifling fumes.  With a last long breath of fresh air I plunged in after him, scarcely knowing what would happen to me.  I saw the figure on the floor, seized it, and backed out of the room as fast as I could.

Dizzy and giddy from the fumes I had been forced to inhale, I managed to drag the form to the nearest window.  It was Lucille White.

An instant later I felt myself unceremoniously pushed aside.  Spencer had forgotten all about the millions of dollars’ worth of curios, all about the suspicions that had been entertained against her, and had taken the half-conscious burden from me.

“This is the second time I have found you here, Edouard,” she was muttering in her half-delirium, still struggling.  “The first time--that night I hid in the mummy-case, you fled when I called for help.  I have followed you every moment since last night to prevent this.  Edouard, don’t, don’t!  Remember I was—­I am your wife.  Listen to me.  Oh, it is the absinthe that has spoiled your art and made it worthless, not the critics.  It is not Mr. Spencer who has enticed me away, but you who drove me away, first from Paris, and now from New York.  He has been only—­No!