Now Red Antony was a giant, and irresponsible at that. The two of us couldn’t have held him from that library door. Tarlyon let him pass with a wicked word, and has regretted it ever since. Antony slammed the door behind him, and we heard the twist of the key.
Without a word to me Tarlyon was at the French window; opened it, and disappeared. I stayed. I was extremely uncomfortable in that mad-house, you understand. Perhaps two minutes passed, perhaps ten. Where the devil was Tarlyon? And then I heard through the library door the thud of something falling. And then in there a window smashed, a sharp smash. I measured my distance from that door and crashed my shoulder at it, and fell into the library on top of the panel.
“Light,” said Tarlyon’s voice. I switched it on. On the floor between us was a heap of a man face downwards, with the back of a red head half-screwed under an outstretched arm. And there was red on the back of Tarlyon’s hand where he had put it through the window.
We knelt each side of Red Antony, and turned him over.
“Dead,” I said.
“Not he!” said Tarlyon. “He’s fainted—from fright.” But he knew as well as I did that Antony was dead—from fright. The huge bulk was as limp as a half-filled sack as we lifted it a little. Antony’s eyes were wide open, and they were like the eyes of a child that has just been thrashed.
“He’s been shot,” I said suddenly.
“There was no noise,” said Tarlyon, but he looked at me. There had been no noise, but there was the faint, acrid taste of pistol-smoke in the air. It’s unmistakable, that faint, acrid smell of a revolver just spent. But Antony had not been shot.
“It wasn’t an illusion, then!” Tarlyon whispered softly. “That smell ... of Roger’s revolver! And it’s killed Antony in the end!”
I stared down at the poor haunted face. And then I heard Tarlyon whisper. “My God!” And again: “My God—look at that!” But I did not look. I knew he was staring over my shoulder, and I was afraid to look. I was afraid of what I would see. And then I twisted my head over my shoulder, towards the far end of the room, where there was a little door from the hall. And I saw the thing sitting squat in the corner, the black thing with white teeth flashing in a white face and a gardenia in her hair. In the palm of one hand was a little golden bowl, and from this bowl floated up a wisp of smoke, just a wisp of smoke against the blackness of her dress, and this was the faint, acrid smell of a spent bullet. And Diavalen was laughing—the dumb woman was laughing with all the glory of ivory teeth and scarlet lips.... We left the thing to its joke. We went out by the window, and did not remember our hats and sticks.