The thought was flashing in his mind, illumining the darkness of his
despair with the hope that he would be able to force a word as to the
girl's whereabouts from the burglar ere the police arrived; Maitland's
foot was on the upper step, when a scream of mortal terror--_her_
voice!--broke from within. Half maddened, he threw himself bodily
against the door, twisting the knob with frantic fingers that slipped
upon its immovable polished surface.
The bolt had been shot, he was barred out, and, with only the width of
a man's hand between them, the girl was in deathly peril and terror.
A sob that was at the same time an oath rose to his lips. Baffled,
helpless, he fell back, tears of rage starting to his eyes, her accents
ringing in his ears as terribly pitiful as the cry of a lost and
wandering soul.
"God!" he mumbled incoherently, and in desperation sent the pistol-butt
crashing against the glass. It was tough, stout, stubborn; the first
blow scarcely flawed it. As he redoubled his efforts to shatter it,
Hickey's hand shot over his shoulder to aid him.... And with startling
abruptness the barrier seemed to dissolve before their eyes, the glass
falling inward with a shrill clatter.
Quaintly, with the effect of a picture cast by a cinematograph in a
darkened auditorium, there leaped upon Maitland's field of vision the
picture of Anisty standing at bay, face drawn and tense, lips curled
back, eyes lurid with defiance and despair. He stood, poised upon the
balls of his feet, like a cat ready to spring, in the doorway between
the inner and outer offices. He raised his hand with an indescribably
swift and vicious gesture, and a flame seemed to blaze out from his
finger-tips.
At the same instant Hickey's weapon spat by Maitland's cheek; the young
man felt the hot furnace breath of it.
The burglar reeled as though from a tremendous blow. His inflamed
features were suddenly whitened, and his right arm dropped limply from
the shoulder, revolver falling from fingers involuntarily relaxing.
Hickey covered him. "Surrender!" he roared. And fired again. For Anisty
had gone to his knees, reaching for the revolver with his uninjured arm.
The detective's second bullet winged through the doorway, over Anisty's
head, and bit through the outer window. As Anisty, with a tremendous
strain upon his failing powers, struggled to his feet, Maitland,
catching the murderous gleam in the man's eye, pulled trigger. The
burglar's answering shot expended itself as harmlessly as Maitland's.
Both went wide of their marks.
And of a sudden Hickey had drawn the bolt, and the body of police
behind forced Maitland pell-mell into the room. As he recovered he saw
Hickey hurling himself at the criminal's throat--one second too late.
True to his pledge never to be taken alive, Anisty had sent his last
bullet crashing through his own skull.
A cry of horror and consternation forced itself from Maitland's throat.
The police halted, each where he stood, transfixed. Anisty drew himself
up, with a trace of pride in his pose; smiled horribly; put a hand
mechanically to his lips....
And died.
Hickey caught him as he fell, but Maitland, unheeding, leaped over the
body that had in life resembled him so fatally, and entered Bannerman's
private office.
The grey girl lay at length in a corner of the room, shielded from
observation by one of the desks. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks wore
the hue of death; the fair young head was pillowed on one white and
rounded forearm, in an attitude of natural rest, and the burnished
hair, its heavy coils slipping from their fastenings, tumbled over her
head and shoulders in shimmering glory, like a splash of living flame.
With a low and bitter cry the young man dropped to his knees by her
side. In the outer office the police were assembled in excited
conclave, blind to all save the momentous fact of Anisty's last,
supremely consistent act. For the time Maitland was utterly alone with
his great and aching loneliness.
After a little while timidly he touched her hand. It lay upturned,
white slender fingers like exotic petals curling in upon the rosy
hollow of her palm. And it was soft and warm.
He lifted it tenderly in both his own, and so held it for a space,
brooding, marveling at its perfection. And inevitably he bent and
touched it with his lips, as if their ardent contact would warm it to
sentience....
The fingers tightened upon his own, slowly, surely; and in the blinding
joy of that moment he was made conscious of the ineffable sweetness of
opening, wondering eyes.