His expression of rage passed away; now his look was inscrutable. Stealing across the vestibule, he approached Miss Vost's door, and rapped.
Peter ran his fingers along the edge of the table until they encountered the hilt of a cutlass. He waited.
The Mongolian rapped a little louder. There was no answer. Again he knocked, imperatively. Peter heard Miss Vost's sleepy voice pitched in inquiry. Her door opened an inch or two.
The Mongolian forced his way inside!
Miss Vost uttered a short, sharp scream, which was instantly smothered.
As Peter burst into the room, the Mongolian turned with a snarl, reaching for his silk blouse. Peter clapped his free hand to the muscled shoulder, and dragged him into the corridor.
Miss Vost, in a long, white nightgown, was framed in the doorway, staring sleepily. Her hand was clutched to her lips. Her hair tumbled about her bare shoulders in dark, silky clusters.
Bright steel flashed in the Mongolian's hand. "Ha-li!" he muttered.
Peter braced himself, and thrust straight upward, striking with fury. He drove the sword through the Mongolian's right eye.
Miss Vost, a slender pillar of white, stared down at the floundering heap. She seemed to be going mad, with the green light of the electric glittering in her distended eyes.