"The price of his complicity?" he exclaimed, laying his hand upon Sturgis's arm, and looking earnestly into his eyes.
"Yes," replied the reporter, steadily meeting his friend's gaze, "his daughter's hand."
Sprague looked away from the honest eyes of the reporter, as if he dreaded to read in them the answer to his next question.
"Who is this fiend incarnate, who is willing to traffic in his own flesh and blood, and with whom murder is a science?"
"The man who is capable of these crimes, and of any others which might serve to remove an obstacle from his way, is——"
The reporter did not finish his sentence. He suddenly grasped his companion by the arm and stood transfixed, his eyes dilated, his neck craned in a listening attitude, every muscle tense like those of a wild animal in ambush, about to spring upon its approaching prey.
Presently a click was heard as though a bolt had been shot from its socket.
"Draw your revolver!" Sturgis whispered hoarsely to his companion. "Quick!——Look there!"
At the same time he drew his own weapon and pointed in the direction of the door at the head of the stairs. The door opened, and a man entered, quietly smoking a cigar.
"Doctor Murdock!" exclaimed Sprague with horror.