Gard ran lightly up the steps. It was quite on the cards that Mrs.
Marteen in her anguish and despair might make an effort to see and
upbraid the man whose hatred and vengeance had wrecked her life. Mahr
must be warned of all that had taken place, and schooled to meet the
situation--to confess at once that his plans had been thwarted, that his
tongue was forever bound to silence and that his intended victim was
free. He, Marcus Gard, must dictate every word that might be said,
foresee every possible form in which a meeting might come, and dictate
the terms of Mahr's surrender. Words and sentences formed and shifted in
his mind as he waited impatiently for his summons to be answered. The
butler bowed, murmuring that Mr. Mahr was expecting Mr. Gard, and
preceded him across the anteroom to the well-remembered door of the
inner sanctum, which he threw open before the guest, and retired
silently.

Closing the door securely behind him, Gard turned toward the sole
occupant of the room. Mahr did not heed his coming nor rise to greet
him. The ticking of the carved Louis XV clock on the mantel seemed
preternaturally loud in the oppressive silence.

Suddenly and unreasonably Gard choked with fear. In one bound he crossed
the room and stood staring down at the face of his host. For an instant
he stood paralyzed with amazement and horror. Then, as always, when in
the heart of the tempest, he became calm, and his mind, as if acting
under some heroic stimulant, became intensely clarified. Mahr was dead.
He leaned forward and lifted the head; the body was still warm, and it
fell forward, limp and heavy. On the left temple was a large contusion
and a slight cut. The cause was not far to seek. On the table lay an
ancient flintlock pistol, somewhat apart from a heap of small arms
belonging to an eighteenth century trophy.