“‘Now—­write!’ he says, and as he dictates, I write—­”

“This?” interjected Kennedy, eagerly holding up the letter that he had received from her.

Elaine looked it over with her drug-laden eyes.  “Yes,” she nodded, then lapsed again to the scene itself.  “He reads it over and as he does so says, ‘Now, address an envelope.’  Himself he folds the letter, seals the envelope, stamps it, and drops it into his pocket, hastily straightening the desk.

“’Now, go ahead of me—­again.  Leave the room—­no, by the hall door.  We are going back upstairs.’  I obey him, and at the door he switches off the lights.  How I stand it, I don’t know.  I go upstairs, mechanically, into my own room—­I and this masked man.

“‘Take off the kimono and slippers!’ he orders.  I do that.  ’Get into bed!’ he growls.  I crawl in fearfully.  For a moment he looks about,—­then goes out—­with a look back as he goes.  Oh!  Oh!  That hand—­which he raises at me—­that hand!”

The poor girl was sitting bolt upright, staring straight at the hall door, as we watched and listened, fascinated.

Kennedy was bending over, soothing her.  She gave evidences of coming out from the effect of the drug.

I noticed that Bennett had suddenly moved a step in the direction of the door at which she stared.

“My God!” he muttered, staring, too.  “Look!”

We did look.  A letter was slowly being inserted under the door.

I took a quick step forward.  That moment I felt a rough tug at my arm, and a voice whispered, “Wait—­you chump!”

It was Kennedy.  He had whipped out his automatic and had carefully leveled it at the door.  Before he could fire, however, Bennett had rushed ahead.

I followed.  We looked down the hall.  Sure enough, the figure of a man could be seen disappearing around an angle.  I followed Bennett out of the door and down the hall.

Words cannot keep pace with what followed.  Together we rushed to the backstairs.

“Down there, while I go down the front!” cried Bennett.

I went down and he turned and went down the other flight.  As he did so, Craig followed him.

Suddenly, in the drawing room, I bumped into a figure on the other side of the portieres.  I seized him.  We struggled.  Rip!  The portieres came down, covering me entirely.  Over and over we went, smashing a lamp.  It was vicious.  Another man attacked me, too.

“I—­I’ve got him—­Kennedy!” I heard a voice pant over me.

A scream followed from Aunt Josephine.  Suddenly the portieres were pulled off me.

“The deuce!” puffed Kennedy.  “It’s Jameson!”

Bennett had rushed plump into me, coming the other way, hidden by the portieres.

If we had known at the time, our Michael of the sinister face had gained the library and was standing in the center of the room.  He had heard me coming and had fled to the drawing room.  As we finished our struggle in the library, he rose hastily from behind the divan in the other room where he had dropped and had quietly and hastily disappeared through another door.