Lys were left to live? This would happen: her cult would grow by leaps and bounds. When next a member lay close to death, a hundred hell-inspired devotees would group about his bed, to snatch his spirit back from eternity. They would feed him, like a spawning vampire, with the life essence of their fellow-men!"
And then Ethredge lifted his hand and let it fall heavily at his side.
"I see, now, that we must destroy her," he admitted. "But, Peters, do you know that we may face a murder charge?"
Peters stared inflexibly at his chief.
"I had thought of that," he admitted quietly. "If it must be, it must be. But—it is incredible that a thing of ectoplasm, a thing born of thought and the life essence of many men, can in death retain human shape. It is my belief that the thing will—change."
Ethredge stood up.
"Whatever happens, it is destiny," he said slowly. "Are you ready, Peters? What weapons shall we take?"
Peters picked up a slender, steel-bladed, bronze-hilted paper-knife that lay on his desk. It had been a gift; it had never been used, but it was sharp.
"I think that this will be sufficient," he murmured.
12. A Dread Combat
Knock, knock, knock.
Peters' fists beat a questioning tattoo on the door Gallicchio had named, then paused. Half-way down the stairs, panting with righteous indignation, the fat landlady hovered.
There was a long silence from within the room. Then the soft sound of footsteps.
"Who is it? Nicky?"
Ethredge shivered. That voice—that alluringly rich contralto!
Quietly the door opened, a few inches. Peters' square-toed boot was in the crack with the rapidity of a striking serpent. His shoulder lunged against the door. The door burst open, the two men plunged into the room.
"Charles Ethredge!"
The woman's exclamation was an incredulous gasp. Yet, even in that instant of surprize, of fear-ridden shock, her arms half lifted toward him, her full-curved lips parted, trembling with passion. For the woman was Marilyn Des Lys!
Peters had stopped short. Marilyn Des Lys' beauty dominated the room like the beauty of some exotic flower, radiated a strange, unhuman splendor, enfolded and bathed the men in sensuous delight.
"God, Commissioner!" Peters babbled. "She's lovely!"
Slowly, like a puppet drawn by invisible strings, Ethredge was moving toward her, his eyes mad with horror, glazed with hypnotized desire.
"Marilyn! Marilyn!" The unuttered name hung in the air, pleaded and rang in the silence.
She stepped back, warily. Her lambent eyes were fixed on Ethredge's face, as though she knew that by controlling the Commissioner she also controlled Peters; yet she was also sending out waves of thought—seductive, sensual thought—in a desperate attempt to bend the detective to her will. She stepped back as the men advanced—Ethredge dazed beneath her spell, Peters striving to gain the cold courage to destroy this lovely thing.
Tantalizing thoughts danced in Peters' brain. He pictured her lying in his arms, her lips reaching upward toward his kiss, whispering words of love and passion. . . .
Suddenly, with a hoarse, inhuman cry, Ethredge seized her in his arms!
And in that instant Peters' hand slid
