But the sounds did not seem to come all the way down the flight; they appeared to stop midway, and the detective glanced up at the open transom.
The sight he saw there riveted him to the spot.
Leaning over the banisters was Opal Lamont, but how changed.
Her face was as white as a sheet, and her lips were welded like pieces of steel.
The hat had been discarded, and her long hair fell in uncombed masses over her shoulder.
The girl looked like an avenging spirit, and the detective thought he had never seen a face just like hers.
The whole thing appeared more visionary than real; it seemed some hideous dream in which he was to be the victim, but that it was terrible reality the detective soon discovered.
The lips sprang apart suddenly, and Nick heard the voice of the creature on the stairs.
“I hardly expected to trap you so easily,” she said, in sharp, triumphant tones. “You fell into the snare like a tenderfoot. Did you think I was about to reveal something to you? Your time has come! I hold death in my hand, and I haven’t practiced at the pistol galleries for nothing.”
Carter saw the revolver which Opal Lamont thrust forward; he tried to spring to the door, but some unseen agency seemed to root him to the carpet. Then came a flash, leaping tigerlike through the transom, as it seemed—then darkness.