he hands of nameless thugs.

But there were sinews of iron in the arm of his unknown assailant
now throttling him. A hand of steel grasped his relaxing wrist and
the weapon was hurled far away.

Standing there, a triumphant Moloch, the unmasked Hugo Landor
watched the last struggles of the man relapsed into a helpless
insensibility. "Fool, the powder in those cartridges was drawn
weeks ago," muttered "August Meyer," as he growled, "This first!"

He seized upon the bank portmanteau and then disappeared for
a moment. Darting back, he dragged the prostrate form of Randall
Clayton out from the corner where it lay.

With one mighty effort he raised the heavy body and stealthily
descended the stairway into the long-unused basement.

Alone, in the darkened horrors of that grewsome cellar, the
triumphant criminal hastened to strip the body of the man whom he
had lured to a horrible death.

The deadly poison in the drugged wine had killed the unfortunate
lover almost instantly.

Braun hastened up the stairway with the plunder of the corpse,
and yet he paused a moment as three light taps resounded upon the
closed folding doors. "She is sound asleep; I cannot waken her
now," whispered Leah Einstein. "Then help me to carry her upstairs.
You must not leave her for an instant till I am done."

Meyer sprang into the room, and in five minutes returned with a
grin upon his hardened face. "Leah is safely locked in the second
story. Fear will keep her mouth shut, and she can quiet the other
light-headed fool."

The temporary eclipse of the gambling-rooms gave the disguised
criminal an opportunity to work in perfect safety.

With lightning rapidity he had examined all the spoil of his victim's
pockets. A horrid silence had settled down over the deserted old
mansion.

In his stocking feet the scoundrel stole down-stairs, and there
toiled alone, with the inanimate thing, once a stalwart man, lying
there helpless and prone in death before him.

"The chloroform finished him!" muttered Meyer, as he sought fresh
air from an open grating leading into a sunken window opening. It
was in the old unused laundry-room that "Braun, the specialist,"
hastily burned all Clayton's clothing in a long-idle furnace.
"His hat and shoes can go in with my trash; the pistol I can drop
overboard," murmured the cowardly wretch. He cast a callous glance
now and then at the body of his victim, cut off in the flower of
life and hope.

"No body ma