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The door had closed behind him, swiftly but gently, eclipsing the faint
light from the hall, leaving what amounted to stark darkness.
His first impression was that the intruder—Roddy or whoever—had
darted past him and out, pulling the door to in that act.
Before he could consciously revise this misconception he was fighting
for his life.
So unexpected, so swift and sudden fell the assault, that he was caught
completely off guard: between the shutting of the door and an onslaught
whose violence sent him reeling to the wall, the elapsed time could
have been measured by the fluttering of an eyelash.
And then two powerful arms were round him, pinioning his hands to his
sides, his feet were tripped up, and he was thrown with a force that
fairly jarred his teeth, half-stunning him.
For a breath he lay dazed, struggling feebly; not long, but long enough
to enable his antagonist to shift his hold and climb on top of his body,
where he squatted, bearing down heavily with a knee on either of
Lanyard’s forearms, hands encircling his neck, murderous thumbs digging
into his windpipe.
He revived momentarily, pulled himself together, and heaved mightily in
futile effort to unseat the other.
The sole outcome of this was a tightening pressure on his throat.
The pain grew agonizing; Lanyard’s breath was almost completely shut
off; he gasped vainly, with a rattling noise in his gullet; his
eyeballs started; a myriad coruscant lights danced and interlaced
blindingly before them; in his ears there rang a roaring like the voice
of heavy surf breaking upon a rock-bound coast.
And of a sudden he ceased to struggle and lay slack, passive in the
other’s hands.
Only an instant longer was the clutch on his throat maintained. Both
hands left it quickly, one shifting to his head to turn and press it
roughly cheek to floor. Simultaneously he was aware of the other hand
fumbling about his neck, and then of a touch of metal and the sting of
a needle driven into the flesh beneath his ear.
That galvanized him; he came to life again in a twinkling, animate with
threefold strength and cunning. The man on his chest was thrown off as
by a young earthquake; and Lanyard’s right arm was no sooner free than
it shot out with blind but deadly accuracy to the point of his
assailant’s jaw. A click of teeth was followed by a sickish grunt as
the man lurched over….
Lanyard found himself scrambling to his feet, a bit giddy perhaps, but
still sufficiently master of his wits to get his pistol out before
making another move.
X TURN ABOUTThe thought of Lanyard’s pocket flash-lamp offering itself, immediately
its wide circle of light enveloped his late antagonist.
That one was resting on a shoulder, legs uncouthly a-sprawl, quite
without movement of any perceptible sort; his face more than
half-turned to the floor, and masked into the bargain.
Incredulously Lanyard stirred the body with a foot, holding his weapon
poised as though half-expecting it to quicken with instant and violent
action; but it responded in no way.
With a nod of satisfaction, he shifted the light until it marked down
the nearest electric bulb, which proved, in line with his inference, to
have been extinguished by the socket key, while the heat of its bulb
indicated that the current had been shut off only an instant before his
entrance.
The light full up, he went back to the thug, knelt and, lifting the
body, turned it upon its back.
Recognition immediately rewarded this manoeuvre: the masked face
upturned to the glare was that of the American who had made a fourth in
the concert of the Pack—“Mr. Smith,” Quickly unlatching the mask,
Lanyard removed it; but the countenance thus exposed told little more
than he knew; he could have sworn he had never seen it before. None the
less, something in its evil cast persistently troubled his memory, with
the same provoking and baffling effect that had attended their first
encounter.
Already the American was struggling toward consciousness. His lips and
eyelids twitched spasmodically, he shuddered, and his flexed muscles
began to relax. In this process something fell from between the fingers
of his right hand—something small and silver-bright that caught
Lanyard’s eye.
Picking it up, he examined with interest a small hypodermic syringe
loaded to the full capacity of its glass cylinder, plunger drawn
back—all ready for instant service.
It was the needle of this instrument that had pricked the skin of
Lanyard’s neck; beyond reasonable doubt it contained a soporific, if
not exactly a killing dose of some narcotic drug—cocaine, at a
venture.
So it appeared that this agent of the Pack had been commissioned to put
the Lone Wolf to sleep for an hour or two or more—_perhaps_ not
permanently!—that he might be out of the way long enough for their
occult purposes.
He smiled grimly, fingering the hypodermic and eyeing the prostrate man.
“Turn about,” he reflected, “is said to be fair play…. Well, why not?”
He bent forward, dug the needle into the wrist of the American and shot
the plunger home, all in a single movement so swift and deft that the
drug was delivered before the pain could startle the victim from his
coma.
As for that, the man came to quickly enough; but only to have his
clearing senses met and dashed by the muzzle of a pistol stamping a
cold ring upon his temple.
“Lie perfectly quiet, my dear Mr. Smith,” Lanyard advised; “don’t speak
above a whisper! Give the good dope a chance: it’ll only need a moment,
or I’m no judge and you’re a careless highbinder! I’d like to know,
however—if it’s all the same to you—”
But already the injection was taking effect; the look of panic, which
had drawn the features of the American and flickered from his eyes with
dawning appreciation of his plight, was clouding, fading, blending into
one of daze and stupour. The eyelids flickered and lay still; the lips
moved as if with urgent desire to speak, but were dumb; a long
convulsive sigh shook the American’s body; and he rested with the
immobility of the dead, save for the slow but steady rise and fall of
his bosom.
Lanyard thoughtfully reviewed these phenomena.
“Must kick like a mule, that dope!” he reflected. “Lucky it didn’t get
me before I guessed what was up! If I’d even suspected its strength,
however, I’d have been less hasty: I could do with a little information
from Mr. Mysterious Stranger here!”
Suddenly conscious of a dry and burning throat, he rose and going to
the washstand drank deep and thirstily from a water-bottle; then set
himself resolutely to repair the disarray of his wits and consider what
was best to be done.
In his abstraction he wandered to a chair over whose back hung a light
dressing-gown of wine-coloured silk, which, because it would pack in
small compass, was in the habit of carrying with him on his travels.
Lanyard had left this thrown across his bed; and he was wondering
subconsciously what use the man had thought to make of it, that he
should have taken the trouble to shift it to the chair.
But even as he laid hold of it, Lanyard dropped the garment in sheer
surprise to find it damp and heavy in his grasp, sodden with viscid
moisture. And when, in a swift flash of intuition, he examined his
fingers, he discovered them discoloured with a faint reddish stain.
Had the dye run? And how had the American come to dabble the garment
in water—to what end?
Then the shape of an object on the floor near his feet arrested
Lanyard’s questing vision. He stared, incredulous, moved forward, bent
over and picked it up, clipping it gingerly between finger-tips.
It was one of his razors—a heavy hollow-ground blade—and it was foul
with blood.
With a low cry, smitten with awful understanding, Lanyard wheeled and
stared fearfully at the door communicating with Roddy’s room.
It stood ajar an inch or two, its splintered lock accounted for by a
small but extremely efficient jointed steel jimmy which lay near the
threshold.
Beyond the door … darkness … silence…
Mustering up all his courage, the adventurer strode determinedly into
the adjoining room.
The first flash of his hand-lamp discovered to him sickening
verification of his most dreadful apprehensions.
Now he saw why his dressing-gown had been requisitioned—to protect a
butcher’s clothing.
After a moment he returned, shut the door, and set his back against it,
as if to bar out that reeking shambles.
He was very pale, his face drawn with horror; and he was powerfully
shaken with nausea.
The plot was damnably patent: Roddy proving a menace to the Pack and
requiring elimination, his murder had been decreed as well as that the
blame for it should be laid at Lanyard’s door. Hence the attempt to
drug him, that he might not escape before police could be sent to find
him there.
He could no longer doubt that De Morbihan had been left behind at the
Circle of Friends of Harmony solely to detain him, if need be, and
afford Smith time to finish his hideous job and set the trap for the
second victim.
And the plot had succeeded despite its partial failure, despite the
swift reverse chance and Lanyard’s cunning had meted out to the Pack’s
agent. It was his dressing-gown that was saturate with Roddy’s blood,
just as they were his gloves, pilfered from his luggage, which had
measurably protected the killer’s hands, and which Lanyard had found in
the next room, stripped hastily off and thrown to the floor—twin
crumpled wads of blood-stained chamois-skin.
He had now little choice; he must either flee Paris and trust to his
wits to save him, or else seek De Morbihan and solicit his protection,
his boasted influence in high quarters.
But to give himself into the hands, to become an associate, of one who
could be party to so cowardly a Crime as this … Lanyard told himself
he would sooner pay the guillotine the penalty….
Consulting his watch, he found the hour to be no later than half-past
four: so swiftly (truly treading upon one another’s heels) events had
moved since the incident of the somnambulist.
This left at his disposal a fair two hours more of darkness: November
nights are long and black in Paris; it would hardly be even moderately
light before seven o’clock. But that were a respite none too long for
Lanyard’s necessity; he must think swiftly in contemplation of instant
action were he to extricate himself without the Pack’s knowledge and
consent.
Granted, then, he must fly this stricken field of Paris. But how? De
Morbihan had promised that Popinot’s creatures would guard every
outlet; and Lanyard didn’t doubt him. An attempt to escape the city by
any ordinary channel would be to invite either denunciation to the
police on the charge of murder, or one of those fatally expeditious
forms of assassination of which the Apaches are past-masters.
He must and would find another way; but his decision was frightfully
hampered by lack of ready money; the few odd francs in his pocket
were no store for the war-chest demanded by this emergency.
True, he had the Omber jewels; but they were not negotiable—not at
least in Paris.
And the Huysman plans?
He pondered briefly the possibilities of the Huysman plans.
In his fretting, pacing softly to and fro, at each turn he
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