"Murderer!" cried a voice behind him, and a counter blow from a well directed hand, sent the instrument of death clattering upon the floor.
At the sound of that voice, though it had come from beneath a mask, Guly uttered a cry of anguish a thousand times more heart-rending than would have been a death cry, and sank senseless upon the floor, the lamp going out in its fall.
Trembling with horror, Arthur felt himself pushed forward by Clinton's strong hand in wild haste to the window. Self-preservation was strong within him, he bolted through, Clinton followed, and they once more stood in the street.
"We'll take care of the bags," whispered Clinton, hurriedly, to Arthur; "you fly up that alley, get you to bed, and take care of yourself, you'll only hinder us if you go along—pull off your boots."
Loaded with their booty, Clinton and Quirk passed away like shadows in the stormy darkness, and bewildered, yet aware of the stern necessity for obeying Clinton's advice, Arthur drew off his boots and darted like light up the alley, noiselessly unlocked the small door, fastened it, and once
more breathed in his own room. Quick as thought he rinsed the mud from his boots in some water he knew where to find, turned the India rubber cloak wrong side out and hung it on the peg whence he had taken it, undressed, all in that to him fearful darkness, and once more sought his pillow, without causing a break in the loud snoring of Jeff who still slumbered on his mattress, unconscious of the trouble soon to fall on his devoted head.
Clasping his hands upon his wildly beating heart, Arthur lay still to listen for any sound to indicate that life had returned to Guly, or that Wilkins had awakened. For the first time, he bethought him of his mask, and raising his hand to his face found it had fallen off, probably, he concluded, in his hurried flight through the window.