s unclosed from about the revolver
and clawed at his throat. It seemed to abandon that effort and
attacked Ortiz's face in a frenzy of rage, struggling to claw his eyes
open. The other held the weapon fast with maniacal strength.

At the horror of feeling one of his own manacled hands attacking his
face savagely as if it were itself a sensate thing, Ortiz opened his
eyes. They were wide with despair.

The hand with the revolver made a sudden movement, and Bell flung his
weight upon it as the clutching hand pulled the trigger. There was a
deafening report....

* * * * *

The body seemed to weaken suddenly in Bell's grip. It fought less and
less terribly, though with no lessening of its savagery. He managed to
get the revolver away from the hands that shook with unspeakable rage.
He flung it away and stood panting.

There was a crowd of people suddenly all about the place. Staring,
stunned, incredulous people who regarded Bell with a dawning, damning
suspicion.

Ortiz spoke suddenly. His voice was weak, but it was steady, and it
was full of a desperate relief.

"I wish to make a statement," he said sharply. "I--I wished to commit
suicide for personal reasons. Senor Bell tried to dissuade me. The
handcuffs upon my wrists were placed there with my consent. Senor Bell
is my friend and has done me no wrong. I shot myself, with intention."

Bell beckoned to the ship's doctor.

"Get him bandaged up," he ordered harshly. "There's no need for him to
die."

The body was writhing only feebly, now. Ortiz looked up at him, and
managed a smile. Again there was that incredible impression of the
body not belonging to Ortiz, or Ortiz as a sane and whole and
honorable, admirable man, and the feebly writhing body with its
clutching hands as some evil thing that had properly been defeated and
killed.

* * * * *

The doctor bent down. It was useless, of course. He made futile
movements.

"I wish to speak to my friend, Senor Bell," said Ortiz weakly. "I--I
have not long."

Bell knelt beside him.

"The Master's--deputy in Rio," panted Ortiz weakly, almost in a
whisper, "is--is Ribiera. In Buenos Aires I--I do not know. There was
a man--the one who poisoned me--but I killed him. Secretly. I do not
think--the Master knows. I pray that--"

He stopped. He could not speak again. But he smiled, and a few seconds
later Bell clenched his hands. Ortiz was gone.

Some