With a glance around, Rowland raised his head and slowly slid his body backwards until he found the iron ladder by which he had climbed and descended, waiting a moment at the corner of the car to peer out along the guards and then bending down below the line of windows swung himself along the steps to the window where Zoya was awaiting him and in a moment had tumbled in head first upon the floor beside her. In the dim light of the further corner Von Stromberg lay sprawled helpless, his head back, his mouth open, snoring stentoriously. He was not pretty to look at. But he wasn't in the least formidable. Teeth were missing. He was only senility asleep.
Rowland stared at him a moment in wonder.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"My medicine--the opiate--in his wine glass. He never knew."
"You didn't give him too much?"
"I hope not. There was nothing else to do."
Rowland caught her by the hand.
"Zoya--you're four square. It's fifty-fifty now. Forgive me."
"And you?" she questioned.
"I'm sorry. I'm a beast. We'll beat him now. But the guard----"