CHAPTER XII.

MARION IS MADE A PRISONER.

As the low door was thrown rudely and violently open the brave girl instantly recognized the intruder. It was Jack Green, the property man from the theatre, inadequately disguised with a wig and a false mustache.

Behind him came another man whom Marion did not know. As soon as they had entered they closed the door behind them.

“Well, Mr. Green, you have laid your plans well,” said Marion, as she fingered the revolver in her pocket. “You have lured me here on an errand of mercy. Now, what, may I ask, is the next act on the programme?”

“So she told you, did she?” sneered the man, with a glance at Miss Lindsay. “The little cry baby turned traitor, did she, and yet only last night she swore that she loved me.”

“Oh, I do! I do, Jack!” sobbed the poor, weak girl, hysterically, “but I could not do it, Jack; it was too awfully wicked! I had to tell her even though you killed me.”

“Well, I’ll deal with you later,” said the fellow, brutally. “A man’s wife is his property and he can do what he likes with her.”

“Is it possible that she is your wife?” cried Marion, in horror: “you wretch! you monster! To have a wife and abuse her!”

“Shut up your pretty mouth, if you please,” said Jack Green, sullenly: “and if you’ll come with us quietly, why well and good; if you won’t, why then, we’ll——”

You’ll what? asked Marion, calmly, as she clenched the pistol tighter.

There was a sudden movement of the burly fellow, then a quick, cat-like spring from his companion.

Marion felt a heavy hand upon her left arm and shoulder.

In a second she wheeled around, her revolver in her hand.

“Stand back!” she said, sternly. “Don’t lay a hand on me, cowards! I’ll shoot you like dogs if you dare touch me or this woman!”

Both men fell back for the space of a second, then together they sprang at her and seized her arms.

Marion snapped the trigger of the pistol in the leader’s face. There was no report; the weapon was broken.

In less than a minute the beautiful, struggling girl was bound and gagged. The last that she remembered was hearing Miss Lindsay cry for mercy.

When she opened her eyes again she was in a closed carriage. There was a handkerchief across her mouth and her wrists were tied together loosely.

Opposite her in the carriage sat Jack Green’s companion. His dark, burning eyes gleamed at her from under a slouch hat and never left her face for a moment.

The air in the carriage was almost stifling, and without thinking of the consequences Marion half rose from her seat and with her manacled hands made a feeble effort to lower the window.

“The window is locked and so are the doors,” said a muffled voice. “You are a prisoner, Miss Marlowe, so you may as well submit gracefully.”

Marion glanced at the speaker as she sank back upon her seat. The voice was almost familiar. She tried to think where she had heard it.

After that not a word was spoken until the carriage stopped. They had been riding for a long time and Marion was almost exhausted.

Some one opened the carriage door from the outside and let in a shaft of light from the side lamps.

The young girl caught one glimpse of a hideous face, and then drew back with a gasp of horror.

It was the Chinaman with the fearfully scarred face who stood by the step. In the glare of the lamp she had recognized him instantly.

“Get out!”

The words were spoken in the same muffled voice by the occupant of the carriage, and as Marion rose to her feet her companion deftly blindfolded her.

She could smell a sickening odor as the hideous Chinaman took her in his arms. It made her ill and faint almost in a second.

The poor girl realized that she was being carried into some sort of a house and almost instinctively she guessed that it was a laundry. Passing through a room that smelled strongly of suds, she could feel that she was being carried down some steps and through a long, narrow passage-way. At last a key clicked in a lock and a door was opened and then closed behind her. She had evidently arrived at the end of her journey.

In an instant the bands were entirely removed, and as she opened her eyes and looked about she almost cried aloud in astonishment.

It was as if she had been suddenly transported to another sphere—there was absolutely nothing familiar in a single detail of her surroundings.

She was in a large, low room, hung with Oriental tapestries and covered with thick, rich rugs. There were multi-colored lanterns hanging from various points of the ceiling, and low couches, small tables and magnificently inlaid stools were scattered profusely about the apartment.

The hideous Chinaman had disappeared completely, but her companion in the carriage was still seated at her side; he seemed to be watching her amazement with a great deal of satisfaction.

As Marion gazed about she soon became sensible of a delicate, all-pervading odor—it greeted her nostrils at every turn and was slowly exerting its influences upon her senses as a powerful soporific.

“Where am I? What is this place?” she demanded of her companion. “How dare you bring me here! Have you no regard for the laws of your country?”

There was a soft, low chuckle from the man at her side. Marion held her breath for a second as she heard it. “Let me out of this place at once!” she said, furiously, “I demand that you set me at liberty, sir! What have I done to you that you should treat me so shamefully?”

“Shall I tell you?” hissed a low voice that she now recognized fully. “Shall I tell you what you have done, Signorita Ila de Parloa?”

“What, you, Carlotta?” cried Marion, aghast. “You, a woman, have stooped to this hideous crime? Yes, tell me at once, if you can, what I have done to deserve it!”

She was facing her companion with absolute fearlessness now, and, as the woman threw off her slouch hat together with a wig and false beard, the two stood glaring fiercely at each other in the strange apartment.

“I’ll tell you what you did, you little country innocent!” cried Carlotta, furiously. “You robbed me of my laurels as prima donna of our company, then you robbed me of the man whose very shadow I adored, and yes, you goaded me on to such jealous rage that I killed my lover! I killed Clayton Graham because you came between us, Marion Marlowe!”

“Oh, no, never!” cried Marion, who was aghast with horror. “You killed him in a fit of ungovernable temper. It was not because of me—I am innocent, Carlotta.”

“I do not choose to think so,” said the woman, scornfully. “I vowed to have revenge and I have won it—to my sorrow!”

The groan of agony that followed these words almost melted Marion’s heart to pity. The woman was vile, she was all that was loathsome and bad, yet God alone knew the depths of her suffering.

In another instant she was shaking with sobs; yet her great dark eyes only burned with the agony of hate: there was no tears of relief for the wretched Carlotta.

“Why have you brought me here?” demanded Marion again, as soon as she could control herself sufficiently to ask the question.

The answer sent a thrill of horror through every fiber of her body, it was so utterly diabolical, so cold, cruel and fiendish.

Carlotta raised her head and fixed her burning eyes upon Marion’s face.

“This is an opium den, the best and the worst in the city,” she said, hoarsely. “Men and women come here to live and die. It is better, they think, than dying in prison. I have come here to smoke the drug and dream. I want to sleep and dream—to dream and sleep. Perhaps I shall find rest for the agony of my soul; perhaps I shall only find torture to the very end; but in either case I want you here to keep me company.”