It was evident their interview was not amicable. I heard a loud, explosive “No!” from one or other of them, and then both figures rose and there was a hand-to-hand struggle. Their voices indicated a desperate quarrel, though no words were distinguishable.
And then, as I looked, the shadows blurred into one another,—swayed,—separated, and then a pistol shot rang out, followed immediately by a woman’s shrill scream.
Impulsively I sprang across the hall, and turned the knob of door number two,—the one opposite my own door, and the one through which I had seen the shadowed actions.
But the door would not open.
I hesitated only an instant and then hurried to the door next on the right, number three.
This, too, was fastened on the inside, so I ran back to the only other door, number one,—to the left of the middle door.
This door opened at my touch, and I found myself in the first of Amos Gately’s magnificent rooms.
Beyond one quick, admiring glance, I paid no attention to the beautiful appointments, and I opened the communicating door into the next or middle room.
This, like the first, contained no human being, but it was filled with the smoke and the odor of a recently fired pistol.
I looked around, aghast. This was the room where the altercation had taken place, where two men had grappled, where a pistol had been fired, and moreover, where a woman had screamed. Where were these people?