“Ye—­yes, sir,” faltered the girl.  “But—­oh!” and a burst of hysterical sobbing choked her.

Simmonds shook her again.

“Don’t be a fool, Annie Crogan!” he said.  “Get hold of yourself!”

Godfrey stepped off the bed and picked up one of the limp wrists.

“Her pulse is getting stronger,” he said, after a moment.  “It will soon—­hello, what’s this!”

Clasped tight in the slender fingers was something that looked like a torn and crumpled rubber glove.  He tried to unclasp the fingers, but when he touched them, they contracted rigidly, and a low moan burst from the unconscious girl.  So, after a moment, he desisted and laid the hand down again.

“You understand what you’re to do?” he asked the maid, and she nodded mutely.  “Then come along, boys,” he added, and led the way back to the hall.  His face was dripping with perspiration and his hands were shaking, but he managed to control them.  “And now for Senor Silva,” he said, in another tone, taking the torch from my hand.  “I fear he will have a rude awakening.”

“He sat there like a statue, even when I shot the snake,” remarked Simmonds.  “He’s a wonder, he is.”

“Yes,” agreed Godfrey, as he stepped into the entry, “he’s a wonder.”  Then he stopped, glanced around, and turned a stern face on Simmonds.  “Where’s the man I left on guard here?” he asked.

“Why,” faltered Simmonds, “I remember now—­he helped us carry the young lady.  But we were all right there in the hall—­you don’t mean ...”

Godfrey stepped to the inner door and flashed his torch about the room.  The divan was empty.

Simmonds paused only for a single glance.

“He can’t be far away!” he said.  “He can’t get away in that white robe of his.  Come along, Tom!” and, followed by his assistant, he plunged down the stairs.

I saw Godfrey half-turn to follow; then he stopped, ran his hand along the wall inside the door, found the button, and turned on the lights.  His face was pale and angry.

“It’s my fault as much as anyone’s,” he said savagely.  “I might have known Silva would see the game was up, and try to slip away in the excitement.  I ought to have kept an eye on him.”

“Your eyes were fairly busy as it was,” I remarked.  “Besides, maybe he hasn’t got away.”

Godfrey’s face, as he glanced about the room, showed that he cherished no such hope.

“Let’s see what happened to Mahbub,” he said.  “Maybe he got away, too,” and he crossed to the inner door.

The flame in the brazier had died away, and the smoke came only in fitful puffs, heavy with deadening perfume.  The Thug had not got away.  He lay on the floor—­a dreadful sight.  He was lying on his back, his hands clenched, his body arched in a convulsion, his head drawn far back.  The black lips were parted over the ugly teeth, and the eyes had rolled upward till they gleamed, two vacant balls of white.  At the side of his neck, just under the jaw, was a hideous swelling.