xt instant, I was scrambling desperately after him. The
lawyer-Tartarin had vanished!

CHAPTER VII

THE TRAGEDY

The wall was masked on the other side by a dense growth of shrubbery,
and struggling through this, I found myself on the gravelled path
where I had seen Marjorie Vaughan. Before me, along this path, sped a
shadow which I knew to be Godfrey, and I followed at top speed. At the
end of a moment, I caught a flash of light among the trees, and knew
that we were nearing the house; but I saw no sign of Swain.

We came to the stretch of open lawn, crossed it, and, guided by the
light, found ourselves at the end of a short avenue of trees. At the
other end, a stream of light poured from an open door, and against
that light a running figure was silhouetted. Even as I saw it, it
bounded through the open door and vanished.

"It's Swain!" gasped Godfrey; and then we, too, were at that open
door.

For an instant, I thought the room was empty. Then, from behind the
table in the centre, a demoniac, blood-stained figure rose into view,
holding in its arms a white-robed woman. With a sort of nervous shock,
I saw that the man was Swain, and the woman Marjorie Vaughan. A
thrill of fear ran through me as I saw how her head fell backwards
against his shoulder, how her arms hung limp....

Without so much as a glance in our direction, he laid her gently on a
couch, fell to his knees beside it, and began to chafe her wrists.

It was Godfrey who mastered himself first, and who stepped forward to
Swain's side.

"Is she dead?" he asked.

Swain shook his head impatiently, without looking up.

"How is she hurt?" Godfrey persisted, bending closer above the
unconscious girl.

Swain shot him one red glance.

"She's not hurt!" he said, hoarsely. "She has fainted--that's all. Go
away."

But Godfrey did not go away. After one burning look at Swain's
lowering face, he bent again above the still figure on the couch, and
touched his fingers to the temples. What he saw or felt seemed to
reassure him, for his voice was more composed when he spoke again.

"I think you're right, Swain," he said. "But we'd better call
someone."

"Call away!" snarled Swain.

"You mean there's no one here? Surely, her father ..."

He stopped, for at the words Swain had burst into a hoarse laugh.

"Her father!" he cried. "Oh, yes; he's here! Call him! He's over
there!"

He made a wild gesture toward a high-backed easy-chair beside the