pect no mercy.

The murderer himself was now looking in the direction of--but not
at--the body of his victim. He was gazing with eyes which expressed
horrified amazement at the sight of the crouching figure of Jacky
Allandale. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her association with
Retief.

Bill closed the door. Now he came forward towards the table, always
keeping Lablache in front of him.

"Is he dead?" Bill's voice was solemn.

Jacky looked up. There was a look as of stone in her somber eyes.

"He is dead--dead."

"Ah! For the moment we will leave the dead. Come, let us deal with the
living. It is time for a final reckoning."

There was a deadly chill in the tone of Bill's voice--a chill which was
infinitely more dreadful to Lablache's ears than could any passionate
outburst have been.

The door opened gently. No one noticed it, so absorbed were they in the
ghastly matter before them. Wider the door swung and several dusky faces
appeared in the opening.

The money-lender stood motionless. His gaze ignored the dead. He watched
the living. He wondered what "Lord" Bill's preamble portended. He shook
himself like one rousing from some dreadful nightmare. He summoned his
courage and tried to face the consequences of his act with an outward
calm. Struggle as he might a deadly fear was ever present.

It was not the actual fear of death--it was the moral dread of something
intangible. He feared at that moment not that which was to come. It was
the presence of the dusky-visaged raider and--the girl. He feared mostly
the icy look on Jacky's face. However, his mind was quite clear. He was
watching for a loophole of escape. And he lost no detail of the scene
before him.

A matter which puzzled him greatly was the familiar voice of the raider.
Retief, as he knew him, spoke with a pronounced accent, but now he only
heard the ordinary tones of an Englishman.

Bill had purposely abandoned his exaggerated Western drawl. Now he
removed the scarf from his neck and proceeded to wipe the yellow grease
from his face and neck. Lablache, with dismay in his heart, saw the
white skin which had been concealed beneath the paint. The truth
flashed upon him instantly. And before Bill had had time to remove his
wig his name had passed the money-lender's lips.

"Bunning-Ford?" he gasped. And in that expression was a world of moral
fear.

"Yes, Bunning-Ford, come to settle his last reckoning with you."

Bill eyed the murderer