to the fancy that the echoes of those screams tortured his ears.
"Stay here quietly," he whispered.
"Don't go in there, Jim."
He pushed her hands gently away. His movements as he crossed the floor were stealthier than those which still persisted in the bedroom. He paused in the doorway. The darkness was complete, yet he could locate the movements now against the farther wall.
He drew out his revolver and his flashlight. He pressed the button. The glare splintered the blackness and centered on the figure of a man who bent over the open drawer of a desk.
"Throw your hands up!" Garth said.
In the dressing-room Nora cried out.
The man at the desk swung around, lifting his hands and exposing the white and contorted face of the butler, Thompson.
Garth laughed nervously.
"I've got him, Nora."
"Wh—what do you mean?" the man asked. "I came back—Who are you? What do you want of me?"
Garth stepped forward aggressively. His conscience troubled him not at all.
"I want you for the murder of Frederick Treving—there in the next room."
The fellow's jaw dropped.
"No—no. I had nothing to do with it. I swear."
