ts
thin hands of decorated bronze.

"Six-thirty. I must be off to catch Clifford when he gets home. The
imbecile has been out and about the town for two days with a
temperature of over a hundred and one--searching everywhere for this
girl. I believe he was going to the police to-day. That is another
reason for not losing time. There is little likelihood of anyone's
coming here, but one never knows."

In the midst of her almost paralysing fear a thrill shot through Esther
when she heard that Roger was concerned over her disappearance. Then
it had mattered to him when she didn't telephone! She also knew now
how long she had been here. If only these two would go, would leave
her alone, she might possibly be able to carry out her plan of escape;
she would risk it, anyway, desperate though it seemed. Once she got
clear of the house she could find a telephone and ring Roger up. That
would be sufficient. If only they would go! Why were they still
lingering here?

At last the floor creaked with the heavy tread. A wild hope rose in
her breast. A second later and it perished miserably, as she heard the
doctor say:

"I'll just give her another shot before I leave. Then she'll be safe
for some time. Where is the syringe?"

"Here, on the table."

A silence, then Sartorius's voice, reflectively:

"Humph, you didn't give her quite all of it, did you? There's a bit
left."

That, perhaps, explained her being conscious now. What an irony! To
think that Holliday's inexpertness should have brought about the agony
of the past half-hour! But for him she would have remained in peaceful
oblivion, out of which she would have passed imperceptibly to her final
sleep. These terrible moments were her last glimpses of life. In a
few seconds would come utter blankness again; her last chance would be
gone for saving Roger and herself. Should she make a struggle for it
and die fighting? Or was it better to continue her supine pretence and
quietly allow the needle to reduce her once more to a merciful torpor?

"Hand me that tumbler, will you?"

Water splashed from the tap into the basin. She could have burst out
laughing at the precise habits of the man which remained with him now
when they mattered not at all. She could almost see him wash the
needle, could follow every movement up to the setting down of the glass
beside her on the little _table de nuit_.

It was coming, now, the stab that marked the end of cons