,
it showed on his. He replied--a half-dozen words, in a low tone, and
made a motion to offer her a chair. But she paid no attention.

I have no idea how long a time they talked. The fresh outburst of noise
below made it impossible to hear what they said, and there was always
the maddening fact that I could not see her face. I thought of Mrs.
Fleming, but this woman seemed younger and more slender. Schwartz was
arguing, I imagined, but she stood immobile, scornful, watching him. She
seemed to have made a request, and the man's evasions moved her no whit.

It may have been only two or three minutes, but it seemed longer.
Schwartz had given up the argument, whatever it was, and by pointing out
the window, I supposed he was telling her he had thrown what she wanted
out there. Even then she did not turn toward me; I could not see even
her profile.

What happened next was so unexpected that it remains little more than a
picture in my mind. The man threw out his hands as if to show he could
not or would not accede to her request; he was flushed with rage, and
even at that distance the ugly scar on his forehead stood out like a
welt. The next moment I saw the woman raise her right hand, with
something in it.

I yelled to Schwartz to warn him, but he had already seen the revolver.
As he struck her hand aside, the explosion came; I saw her stagger,
clutch at a chair, and fall backward beyond my range of vision.

Then the light went out, and I was staring at a black, brick wall.

I turned and ran frantically toward the stairs. Luckily, I found them
easily. I fell rather than ran down to the floor below. Then I made a
wrong turning and lost some time. My last match set me right and I got
into the yard somehow, and to the street.

It was raining harder than ever, and the thunder was incessant. I ran
around the corner of the street, and found the gate to the White Cat
without trouble. The inner gate was unlocked, as Burton had said he
would leave it, and from the steps of the club I could hear laughter and
the refrain of a popular song. The door opened just as I reached the top
step, and I half-tumbled inside.

Burton was there in the kitchen, with two other men whom I did not
recognize, each one holding a stein of beer. Burton had two, and he held
one out to me as I stood trying to get my breath.

"You win," he said. "Although I'm a hard-working journalist and need the
money, I won't lie. This is Osborne of the _Star_ and