produced in the civilization of our twentieth-century hothouse. Across
the bottom of the picture was scrawled an inscription in a fashionably
angular hand. Lane moved closer to read it. The words were, "Always,
Phyllis." Probably this was the young woman to whom, if rumor were
true, James Cunningham, Senior, was engaged.

On the floor, near where Kirby had been lying, lay a heavy piece of
agate evidently used for a paperweight. He picked up the smooth stone
and guessed instantly that this was the weapon which had established
contact with his chin. Very likely the woman's hand had closed on it
when she heard him coming. She had switched off the light and waited
for him. That the blow had found a vulnerable mark and knocked him out
had been sheer luck.

Kirby passed into a luxurious bedroom beyond which was a tiled
bathroom. He glanced these over and returned to the outer apartment.
There was still another door. It was closed. As the man from Wyoming
moved toward it he felt once more a strange sensation of dread. It was
strong enough to stop him in his stride. What was he going to find
behind that door? When he laid his hand on the knob pinpricks played
over his scalp and galloped down his spine.

He opened the door. A sweet sickish odor, pungent but not heavy,
greeted his nostrils. It was a familiar smell, one he had met only
recently. Where? His memory jumped to a corridor of the Cheyenne
hospital. He had been passing the operating-room on his way to see
Wild Rose. The door had opened and there had been wafted to him
faintly the penetrating whiff of chloroform. It was the same drug he
sniffed now.