“He saved me!” she said, looking up at the officers. “I owe everything to him. Please send for a surgeon and have him taken to my home immediately.”
“The police surgeon will be here in a moment, Miss Holden. Let us take him into another room.”
As they took him from her arms they saw that her garment was soaked with his blood.
“Who is he?” asked the lieutenant.
“I don’t know. He was brought here by the kidnappers when I seemed to be very sick. We had no time for anything but defense.”
The lieutenant took off his overcoat and placed it over Ina’s shoulders, and then they both followed the two officers who carried the unconscious Carlson out through the wreck of the dressing-room and larger bedroom.
And what a scene of ruin and blood! They had to pick their way through masses of broken furniture. One masked dead man lay just outside the bathroom—the man Ina had shot. Another man, his mask torn off, sat propped up against an overturned chiffonier on the floor of the large bedroom. He was groaning and trying to wring his manacled hands, as two officers knelt beside him and searched his pockets.
The mammoth carcass of Tony lay where Carlson and Ina had first dragged it, but it was now half covered by the mattress and debris of the bed. At least a dozen policemen in the rooms. The woman Teresa stood sniveling in a corner, unmasked and handcuffed.
But there was a sudden silence as Ina Holden appeared, her face bloody, her feet bare, and her form covered by the officer’s overcoat. All eyes were fixed on the girl, whose name and picture had been in every newspaper from Maine to California for the last five days.