“Cliff! Cliff!”
He could not respond. He managed to give one last choking gasp. His final thought was the thought of death. Was this to be the end?
THE words that Cliff Marsland had heard had not been formed by his imagination. Harry Vincent, waiting below, had decided it was time to act. He knew that Cliff would return shortly, if only to post him regarding matters upstairs. So Harry, in turn, had ascended the narrow flight.
Like Cliff, he had encountered an antechamber with a curtained doorway at the end. But the space between Harry and the door that barred his path was only fifteen feet!
With Cliff Marsland, it had been twenty!
Harry, listening, also heard a sound beyond that doorway. It was a human utterance, but not in the form of words. Some one seemed to be gasping. Like a shot, Harry realized that Cliff had encountered trouble. He crept forward and stooped before the door, calling Cliff’s name in a low, tense whisper.
There was a faint response; but it could not be called an actual reply. Harry repeated his words. Silence was the only answer. What to do?
Perhaps it would be well to go downstairs; to enter the third floor by tapping at the entrance to Loy Rook’s door at the foot of the regular stairway. Harry would tell the old Chinaman that he had heard some one enter — that he had thought it best to inform his employer.
He turned as he raised himself to his feet. Like Cliff, he was startled. He was facing a blank door, within arm’s reach. He, too, was in a boxlike trap. He realized what had happened to Cliff Marsland. His friend was helpless; so was he!
Harry became unsteady. He felt a sickening sensation. It was doubly bad, for when he began to emit gasping cries, he knew that he was meeting the same power that had overcome Cliff. Was this a poison gas? Did every breath he drew spell doom?