hen he thrust them in and used the strength of his arm,
an additional lever, to push an opening down towards the key inside.

"Mind your arm," said Janet; "you're tearing the skin."

He made no reply--forced his hand still further through the gap until
the splinters of wood were cutting into the flesh and the blood was
dripping down in red blotches on the white paint of the door. She
glanced at his face. It was grey. The pupils of his eyes were large
with fear. His breath was hunting through his nostrils as he strained
to reach the key.

"Now I've got it," he whispered. "Prize that open with the poker as
far as you can or I'll never get my hand back."

She leant all her fragile weight against it, aided with the strength
of maddening fear. Her ears were strained for the sound in the lock.
When she heard the bolt click, she gasped and pressed forward again
with redoubled vigour as he slowly drew out his lacerated hand from
the crevice.

Then they both stood upright. Together they both drew a deep breath
as Traill turned the handle and opened the door. A physical sickness
made them weak. Janet half tumbled, half ran into the room. The length
of Traill's strides brought him even with her.

Sally was there. Sally was in the room. She lay crumpled on the bed,
her legs drawn up, twisted, bent; one arm thrown out covering her
face, her other hand gripping a corner of the bed-clothes, stretching
out from her in tautened creases. She looked as though some giant
hand had knotted her fragile body with fingers of iron.

With a cry, Janet bent over the bed. At her feet, Traill picked up
a little bottle, hurriedly read the label, and blindly put it in his
pocket.

"Uncover her face," he whispered; "take her arm away from her
face--she's choking herself."

"Choking herself!" Janet gently bent the arm back. Every feature was
twisted in the same grip, the lips caught in the same iron fingers
and dragged in her suffering, baring the teeth--the whole expression
of her face was as though she had died, emitting one last scream of
unbearable agony. "Look! Choking herself? She's dead!"

With a muffled sound, Traill forced himself to her side. He put his
arm round her. He lifted her up. The body dragged against him, the
head swung from the loose neck.

"Sally's had her bad time," said Janet, hoarsely, "and, my God, it's
over now!"

THE END

PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.

Messrs