But Ruthven no longer heeded the dog.  His amused and slightly sneering gaze was fastened on the girl in furs who had entered what appeared to be a living room to the right, and now, down on her knees beside a couch, smiling and talking confidentially and quite happily to herself, was placing her dolls in a row against the wall.

The dolls were of various sorts, some plainly enough home-made, some very waxy and gay in sash and lace, some with polished smiling features of porcelain.  One doll, however, was different—­a bit of ragged red flannel and something protruding to represent the head, something that glittered.  And the girl in the fur jacket had this curious doll in her hands when Ruthven, to make sure of her identity, took a quick impulsive step forward.

[Illustration:  “With the acrid smell of smoke choking her.”]

Then the great white dog growled, very low, and the girl in the fur jacket looked around and up quickly.

Alixe!  He realised it as she caught his pale eyes fixed on her; and she stared, sprang to her feet still staring.  Then into her eyes leaped terror, the living horror of recognition distorting her face.  And, as she saw he meant to speak she recoiled, shrinking away, turning in her fright like a hunted thing.  The strange doll in her hand glittered; it was a revolver wrapped in a red rag.

“W-what’s the matter?” he stammered, stepping forward, fearful of the weapon she clutched.

But at the sound of his voice she screamed, crept back closer against the wall, screamed again, pushing the shining muzzle of the weapon deep into her fur jacket above her breast.

“F-for God’s sake!” he gasped, “don’t fire!—­don’t—­”

She closed both eyes and pulled the trigger; something knocked her flat against the wall, but she heard no sound of a report, and she pulled the trigger again and felt another blow.

The second blow must have knocked her down, for she found herself rising to her knees, reaching for the table to aid her.  But her hand was all red and slippery; she looked at it stupidly, fell forward, rose again, with the acrid smell of smoke choking her, and her pretty fur jacket all soaked with the warm wet stuff which now stained both hands.

Then she got to her knees once more, groped in the rushing darkness, and swayed forward, falling loosely and flat.  And this time she did not try to rise.

* * * * *

It was her way; it had always been her way out of trouble; the quickest, easiest escape from what she did not choose to endure.  And even when in her mind the light of reason had gone out for ever, she had not lost that instinct for escape; and, wittingly or not, she had taken the old way out of trouble—­the shortest, quickest way.  And where it leads—­she knew at last, lying there on her face, her fur jacket and her little hands so soiled and red.

As for the man, they finally contrived to drag the dog from him, and lift him to the couch, where he lay twitching among the dolls for a while; then stopped twitching.