Margaret Caruthers set her teeth hard.

"I would to God I were!" she said. All at once she wrenched her hand free
and pointed with it. Her arm, stretched out into the light, had a curious,
ghostly effect. "Look!" she cried.

The red eye winked rapidly in succession, once, twice, three times, and
then closed--this time for ever. An instant later two dark spots darted
out into the brightly lighted space and came at headlong pace toward them.
Christine sprang to her feet, and the two women clung to each other,
obeying for that one moment the instinct which can bind devil to saint.
But it was an English voice which greeted them from the now darkened
doorway.

"It's all over!" Steven Caruthers said, entering with his companion and
slamming the door sharply to. "We have five minutes more. Mackay has
promised to keep them off just so long. Stafford, see to your wife!" He
spoke brutally, in a voice choked with dust and pain. The room was now in
pitch darkness. Harry Stafford felt his way across, his arms outstretched.

"Christine!" he called.

She came to him at once, with a step as firm and steady as a man's.

"Harry!" she cried, her voice ringing with an almost incredulous joy. "Oh,
my darling!"

He caught her to him and felt how calm her pulse had become.

"Are you afraid, my wife?"