the wall.

The dolls were of various sorts, some plainly enough home-made, some
very waxy and gay in sash and lace, some with polished smiling features
of porcelain. One doll, however, was different--a bit of ragged red
flannel and something protruding to represent the head, something that
glittered. And the girl in the fur jacket had this curious doll in
her hands when Ruthven, to make sure of her identity, took a quick
impulsive step forward.

[Illustration: "With the acrid smell of smoke choking her."]

Then the great white dog growled, very low, and the girl in the fur
jacket looked around and up quickly.

Alixe! He realised it as she caught his pale eyes fixed on her; and she
stared, sprang to her feet still staring. Then into her eyes leaped
terror, the living horror of recognition distorting her face. And, as
she saw he meant to speak she recoiled, shrinking away, turning in her
fright like a hunted thing. The strange doll in her hand glittered; it
was a revolver wrapped in a red rag.

"W-what's the matter?" he stammered, stepping forward, fearful of the
weapon she clutched.

But at the sound of his voice she screamed, crept back closer against
the wall, screamed again, pushing the shining muzzle of the weapon deep
into her fur jacket above her breast.

"F-for God's sake!" he gasped, "don't fire!--don't--"

She closed both eyes and pulled the trigger; something knocked her flat
against the wall, but she heard no sound of a report, and she pulled the
trigger again and felt another blow.

The second blow must have knocked her down, for she found herself rising
to her knees, reaching for the table to aid her. But her hand was all
red and slippery; she looked at it stupidly, fell forward, rose again,
with the acrid smell of smoke choking her, and her pretty fur jacket all
soaked with the warm wet stuff which now stained both hands.

Then she got to her knees once more, groped in the rushing darkness,
and swayed forward, falling loosely and flat. And this time she did not
try to rise.

* * * * *

It was her way; it had always been her way out of trouble; the quickest,
easiest escape from what she did not choose to endure. And even when in
her mind the light of reason had gone out for ever, she had not lost
that instinct for escape; and, wittingly or not, she had taken the old
way out of trouble--the shortest, quickest way. And where it leads--she
knew at last, lying there