here."

"Just hand me that piece of paper over there, and I'll write out the
message," said Ronicky, pointing to the little table just beyond the
doorman. The latter turned with a growl, and the moment he was halfway
around Ronicky Doone sprang in. His right arm fastened around the head
of the unlucky warder and, passing down to his throat, crushed it in a
strangle hold. His other hand, darting out in strong precision, caught
the right arm of the warder at the wrist and jerked it back between his
shoulders. In an instant he was effectively gagged and bound by those
two movements, and Ronicky Doone, pausing for an instant to make sure of
himself, heard footsteps in the hall above.

It was too late to do what he had hoped, yet he must take his prize out
of the way. For that purpose he half carried, half dragged his victim
through the doorway and into the adjoining room. There he deposited him
on the floor, as near death as life. Relaxing his hold on the man's
throat, he whipped out his Colt and tucked the cold muzzle under the
chin of the other.

"Now don't stir," he said; "don't whisper, don't move a muscle. Partner,
I'm Ronicky Doone. Now talk quick. Where's Ruth Tolliver?"

"Upstairs."

"In her room?"

"Yes."

Ronicky started to rise, then, for there had been a slight fraction of a
second's pause before the victim answered, he changed his mind. "I ought
to smash your head open for that lie," he said at a random guess. "Tell
me straight, now, where's Ruth Tolliver?"

"How can I tell, if she ain't in her room?"

"Look," said Ronicky Doone, "if anyone comes into the hall before you've
told me where the girl is, you're dead, partner. That's straight, now
talk."

"She's with Mark."

"And where's he?"

"He'd kill me if I tell."

"Not if I find him before he finds you. His killing days are ended!
Where's Mark and the girl? Has he run off with her?"

"Yes."

"They're married?" asked Ronicky, feeling that it might be a wild-goose
chase after all.

"I dunno."

"But where are they?"

"Heaven help me, then! Ill tell you."

He began to whisper swiftly, incoherently, his voice shaking almost to
silence, as he reached the heart of his narrative.

Chapter Twenty-six

_Hills and Sea_

The summerhouse lay in a valley between two hills; resting on the lawn
before it Ruth Tolliver lay with her head pillowed back between her
hands, and the broad brim of her straw that flopped down to shade her
eyes