It was Lucian Davlin, and he entered the building bearing the number Madeline had given in her note.
Instantly Vaughan comprehended the situation. She had sent for aid in this man's absence, and his return might frustrate her plans. Pondering upon the best course to pursue, he descended from the carriage, and paced the length of the block. Turning in his promenade, his ear was greeted by a pistol shot. Could it come from that building? It sounded from there certainly. It was now five minutes past the time appointed; could it be there was foul play? He paused at the foot of the stairs, irresolute.
Suddenly there was a rush of feet, and Henry came flying down, the whites of his eyes looking as if they would never resume their natural proportions. Clarence intercepted the man as he essayed to pass, evidently without having seen him.
"Oh, sir!—Oh, doctor, come right up stairs, quick, sir," he exclaimed.
"Was that shot from here, my man?" inquired Doctor Vaughan, as he followed up the stairs.
"Yes, sir," hurrying on.
"Any people in the building besides your master and the lady?"
"No, sir; not at this time. This way, sir."
He threw open the door and stepped back. Entering the room, this is what Clarence Vaughan saw:
Lying upon the floor in a pool of blood, the splendid form of Lucian Davlin, one arm dripping the red life fluid, the other clasping close the form of a beautiful girl. His eyes were closed and his face pallid as the dead. The eyes of the girl were staring wide and set, her face expressing unutterable fear and horror, every muscle rigid as if in a struggle still. One hand was clenched, and thrown out as if to ward off that death-like grasp, while the other clutched a pistol, still warm and smelling of powder.