d with the
indescribable, musty odors of an Oriental abode, and possessed of an
almost sensuous gloom, a mystic dreariness, a largeness which knew no
dimensions.

As Peter cautiously advanced he was impressed, almost startled, by the
sense of vastness, and he was aware of great, looming proportions.

Close at hand a clock ticked, slowly, drearily, as if the release of
each metallic click of the ancient cogs were to be the last, beating
like the rattling heart of a man in the arms of death. This noise,
like a great clatter, seemed to fill all space.

And he was alone.

Suddenly a yellow light glowed in the dark recesses of the high
ceiling, and Peter sprang back with his hand on the instant inside his
coat, where depended in its leather shoulder-sling the automatic.

Across the great room the girl raised a steady hand, indicating a desk
of gigantic size, of ironwood or lignum-vitae.

He found himself occupying the center of an enormous mandarin rug, with
letterings and grotesque designs in rich blood-reds, and blues and
yellows and browns. He gave the room a moment's survey before falling
to the task.

The walls of this cavern were of satin, priceless rugs, which hung
without a quiver in the breathless gloom. Massive furniture, chairs,
tables, settees, of teak, of ebony and dark mahogany, with deep
carvings, glaring gargoyles and hideous masks, were arranged with an
apparent lack of plan.

And against the far wall, with a face like the gibbous moon, stood a
massive clock of carved rosewood, clacking ponderously, almost
painfully, as if each tick were to be its last.

Peter crouched before the desk, examining the heavy lock on the drawer,
and accepted from the girl's hand a tool, a thick, short, blunt chisel.
He inserted the blunt edge of this instrument in the narrow crack,
and----

A muffled sob, a moan, a stifled cry!

He sprang to his feet, with his hand diving into his coat, and the
fingers he wrapped about the butt of the automatic were as cold as ice.

Romola Borria was cringing, shrinking as if to efface herself from a
terrible scene, against the French window, and staring at him with a
look of wild imploration, of horror, of--death!

From three unwavering spots along the wall to his left glittered the
blue muzzles of revolvers!

Peter dropped to his knees, leaped backward, pointed by instinct, and
fired at the lone yellow light in the ceiling.

Darkness. An unseen body moved. Metal rattle