But they had not counted on McTurpin. "Let her be," he screamed. A pistol flashed. The officer went down at Rose's feet.
Instantly there was confusion. The room was filled with shuffling Oriental figures. The lights went out. Powder-flashes leaped like fireflies in the darkness. Through it all Lees could be heard profanely giving orders.
Then, as swiftly, it was over. Somewhere a door closed. Lees leaped forward just in time to hear an iron bar clang into place.
"Gone," he muttered, as his light searched vainly for the woman.
"Who's that on the bed?" asked Benito.
"The cursed opium-wreck, McTurpin," Lees replied impatiently. "I planted him when I saw Dick go down." He bent above the wounded officer while Benito relighted the lamps and examined curiously the body of his ancient enemy. For McTurpin was dead. He had evidently tried to reach the woman as he fell. His clawlike fingers clutched, in rigor mortis, her abandoned robe. On the floor, where it had fallen from her bosom, doubtless in the hasty flight, there lay a crumpled, bloodstained envelope. Robert springing forward, seized it with an exclamation. It was addressed to William C. Ralston.
CHAPTER LXIV
AN IDOL TOPPLES
News had come in early spring of Robert Windham senior's death in Monterey; less than two months afterward his wife, Anita, lay beside him in the Spanish cemetery.