The detective was on the point of shaking him, when, with a heavy, prolonged gasp, Hayden sat up. Burke sensed the horror of the man, yet he remained motionless. His eyes were fixed on the dark, silent room, wandering frequently to the window.
Nothing unusual was to be seen, and he watched the vague form of his bed-mate. The latter was now rigid, struggling with the weight that oppressed his lungs, and apparently staring off into the room. Then, to Burke’s amazement, Hayden started to breathe normally.
“Burke,” he whispered hoarsely, “did you see it? Did you see them pass down the stairs?”
“Eh?” grunted Burke sleepily.
“My God!” muttered Hayden, “you were to watch, and you fall asleep. They have gone down the stairs. They’ll come back again in four or five minutes. Watch!”
Burke made no reply. He, with his wide-awake companion, was staring intently at the window. Suddenly he felt Hayden stiffen.
“The head is just coming up the stairs!” whispered Hayden.
Burke felt the movement of Hayden’s arm as it slid under the pillow. Then came the blinding flash of the revolver and its roar. Twice Hayden pulled the trigger. By that time Burke had flashed on his electric torch. The room was empty. Burke glanced at the floor. No blood was visible.
Hayden was panting and rocking back and forth.
“I feel awful queer,” he groaned. “Something is dragging me.”