Denning switched on the electric light and, taking a bundle of papers from his inside pocket, began to pencil swift annotation.

Gard ran lightly up the steps.  It was quite on the cards that Mrs. Marteen in her anguish and despair might make an effort to see and upbraid the man whose hatred and vengeance had wrecked her life.  Mahr must be warned of all that had taken place, and schooled to meet the situation—­to confess at once that his plans had been thwarted, that his tongue was forever bound to silence and that his intended victim was free.  He, Marcus Gard, must dictate every word that might be said, foresee every possible form in which a meeting might come, and dictate the terms of Mahr’s surrender.  Words and sentences formed and shifted in his mind as he waited impatiently for his summons to be answered.  The butler bowed, murmuring that Mr. Mahr was expecting Mr. Gard, and preceded him across the anteroom to the well-remembered door of the inner sanctum, which he threw open before the guest, and retired silently.

Closing the door securely behind him, Gard turned toward the sole occupant of the room.  Mahr did not heed his coming nor rise to greet him.  The ticking of the carved Louis XV clock on the mantel seemed preternaturally loud in the oppressive silence.

Suddenly and unreasonably Gard choked with fear.  In one bound he crossed the room and stood staring down at the face of his host.  For an instant he stood paralyzed with amazement and horror.  Then, as always, when in the heart of the tempest, he became calm, and his mind, as if acting under some heroic stimulant, became intensely clarified.  Mahr was dead.  He leaned forward and lifted the head; the body was still warm, and it fell forward, limp and heavy.  On the left temple was a large contusion and a slight cut.  The cause was not far to seek.  On the table lay an ancient flintlock pistol, somewhat apart from a heap of small arms belonging to an eighteenth century trophy.

Murder!  Murder—­and Mrs. Marteen!  His imagination pictured her beautiful still face suddenly becoming maniacal with fury and pain.  Gard suppressed an exclamation.  Well, he would swear Mahr was alive at half after eleven, when he had seen him.  If anyone knew of her coming before that, she would be cleared.  No one knew of his own feud with Mahr; no one suspected it.  His word would be accepted.

Mahr’s face, repulsive in life, was hideous in death—­a mask of selfishness, duplicity and venomous cunning from which departing life had taken its one charm of intelligence.  He looked at the wound again.  The blow must have been sudden and of great force.  Acting on an impulse, he tiptoed to one of the curtained windows, unlocked the fastening and raised it slightly.  A robbery—­why not?  Silently moving back into the room, he approached the corpse and with nervous rapidity looted the dead man of everything of value, leaving the torn wallet, a wornout crumpled affair, lying on the floor.