ay of light upon doors which
were opened and upon openings in the walls where properly there should
have been no doors.

"I am too late!" he muttered; "they had information of this and they
have 'unloaded.' That they intend to fly the country is proven by their
leaving Mrs. Leroux behind. Ah, nom d'un nom, the good God grant that
they have left also."...

Coincident with his thoughts of her, the voice of Helen Cumberly reached
his ears! He stood there quivering in every nerve, as: "Help!
Help!" followed by a choking, inarticulate cry, came, muffled, from
somewhere--he could not determine where.

But the voice was the voice of Helen Cumberly. He raised his left fist
and beat his brow as if to urge his brain to super-activity. Then,
leaping, he was off.

Door after door he threw open, crying, "Miss Cumberly! Miss Cumberly!
Where are you? Have courage! Help is here!"

But the silence remained unbroken--and always his wild search brought
him back to the accursed cave of the golden dragon. He began to grow
dizzy; he felt that his brain was bursting. For somewhere--somewhere but
a few yards removed from him--a woman was in extreme peril!

Clutching dizzily at the pedestal of the dragon, he cried at the top of
his voice:--

"Miss Cumberly! For the good God's sake answer me! Where are you?"

"Here, M. Max!" he was answered; "the door on your right... and then to
your right again--quick! QUICK! Saints! she has killed me!"

It was Gianapolis who spoke!

Max hurled himself through the doorway indicated, falling up against the
matting wall by reason of the impetus of his leap. He turned, leaped on,
and one of the panels was slightly ajar; it was a masked door. Within
was darkness out of which came the sounds of a great turmoil, as of wild
beasts in conflict.

Max kicked the door fully open and flashed the ray of the torch into the
room. It poured its cold light upon a group which, like some masterpiece
of classic statuary, was to remain etched indelibly upon his mind.

Helen Cumberly lay, her head and shoulders pressed back upon the silken
pillows of the bed, with both hands clutching the wrist of the Eurasian
and striving to wrench the latter's fingers from her throat, in the
white skin of which they were bloodily embedded. With his left arm about
the face and head of the devilish half-caste, and grasping with his
right hand her slender right wrist--putting forth all his strength to
hold it back--was Gianapolis!