The realities reasserted themselves. Before him, pale, wide-eyed, and breathing heavily, stood Paul Harley; and prone upon the floor of the pantry lay Rama Dass, still clutching one end of the silken rope in his hand!
“Mr. Harley!” gasped Brinn. “My God, sir!” He clutched at his bruised throat. “I have to thank you for my life.”
He paused, looking down at the prone figure as Harley, dropping upon his knees, turned the man over.
“I struck him behind the ear,” he muttered, “and gave him every ounce. Good heavens!”
He had slipped his hand inside Rama Dass’s vest, and now he looked up, his face very grim.
“Good enough!” said Brinn, coolly. “He asked for it; he’s got it. Take this.” He thrust the Colt automatic into Harley’s hand as the latter stood up again.
“What do we do now?” asked Harley.
“Search the house,” was the reply. “Everything coloured you see, shoot, unless I say no.”
“Miss Abingdon?”
“She’s safe. Follow me.”