And indeed that was just what it looked to be. In the center of the room, her hands still clawing as if for unearned gold, Madame Zaran stood leaning on a table. She seemed dizzy. The reason was a rapidly swelling bruise on her forehead. At her feet lay her thick-necked guard, he who had entered the studio on the previous night. He was out for good. So, too, were two black men in one corner. As for the Professor and the voodoo priestess, they were seated upon the floor, staring at one another for all the world like two spent wrestlers pausing to regain their breath. As Florence and the young officer stood there looking on in stupefied silence, a black goat with golden horns appeared from somewhere. He let out a loud b-a-a, then charged the unfortunate Madame Zaran. He hit her behind the knees, and she collapsed like an empty sack.
“It looks to me,” Patrick drawled, “as if there had been a fight.”
“Sure does look that way,” said a strange voice.
Florence whirled about to find herself looking into a face that resembled a new moon—large thin nose, sharp protruding chin, eyes that bulged slightly. “The Devil,” she thought without saying it.
“You’ve seen me before.” The man favored her with a friendly smile.
“I—I guess I’ve seen your shadow more than once,” the girl managed to reply.
“Handy sort of shadow,” the man chuckled. “You see, I’m a city detective. I’ve been on this case for some time. Now it would seem that all that’s needed is an ambulance.”
“I’ll call one,” Patrick said, hurrying away.
Fifteen minutes later, the whole company, including the goat, were on their way to the police station. Shortly thereafter, the greater number of them were transferred to the hospital.
Of quite a different nature was the meeting in Miss Mabee’s studio two days later.