“That’s it. He’ll see it,” he hissed. “And he’ll know that it is a death trail if he persists.”
In another moment the little den was tenanted by no one but the silent man in the chair.
The gas burned over his head, sicklylike and blue, and the room seemed filled with a noxious odor.
It burned on till the first streaks of morning revealed the city, and pedestrians reappeared on the sidewalks.
No one came.
Several hours passed and the streets swarmed again with their eager thousands.
Then the door was opened and Carter came in.
He stood stock-still at sight of the dead man—his spy—in the chair, and then he happened to glance at the wall.
In another second he was there, and his bulging eyes had read:
“The spy first, the master next! There is no escape for him!”