part I had failed to believe him. But as I looked down upon the

unconscious figure, I realized he had been right. Some one started to speak when in the rear of the room a door suddenly began to open.

I watched the door as it swung slowly open, and then a man came into the room. His face I could not see, for he entered in a sideways position with the body bent far over. His hair was very much disheveled, and the black suit which he wore was a mass of wrinkles. Slowly, with his head bent low, he shambled over to the sofa and, with the hands hanging down, stood looking at the girl. The face I could not see, but as I looked at the uncouth figure, it began to dawn upon me that I knew who the man was.

Suddenly he raised the long thin arms above his head and waved them in a threatening manner over the unconscious girl. For a few seconds he stood silent, then shuffled to the corner of the room and fumbled under a bit of sail cloth. He straightened, his face still hidden from my sight, and then to my consternation I saw he held in his hand—a knife. As he raised it above his head, the long thin steel caught the reflection from the electric light and glittered in a strange fashion. As if testing the force of his blow, he swept the knife downward through the air and then turned to gaze in a reflective manner at the form on the sofa. At the same second I saw Ranville, who was next to me, pull his revolver from his pocket.

For some reason the man remained quiet a moment, then went very slowly to the opposite corner of the room. From where we were on the roof we were unable to see what he was doing. As I bent my face closer to the glass, Bartley suddenly spoke in a low voice:

“Carter, I am going to take Pelt and go down and break in the door. You remember what I said. If it is necessary, do not be afraid to shoot—and shoot to kill. There may come just a second when it will be a question of taking the life of that insane person below or saving the girl. There is only one choice.”

With a touch on my shoulder to follow him he went over to the branch of the tree and pulled himself along to the trunk, when he slid to the ground. I followed him, reaching the foot of the tree at almost the same moment. Without a word he hurried around the side of the building to the front door, I after him. There, adjusting his flash light so the flame would remain fixed, he turned it on the door.

There is a certain instrument by which any door may be opened. It is, in fact, a very powerful lever which simply forces the lock out of position and crushes the door open. The door before us was of heavy wood, and though he fumbled a moment at the lock with a bit of steel, he had no success. Taking the lever from his pocket, he applied it in the proper manner and then began to use his strength. There came the sound of creaking wood, a splintering crash as the door gave way. And then, just as he started to push it open, there came a voice from a figure running over the lawn.

“Mr. Bartley,” cried the voice.

We turned quickly as Patton came in the range of the flash light. He rushed to our side, much out of breath, and his questioning eyes swept over the two of us. Telling him to keep a little behind us, Bartley turned again to the door. He gave it a push, then a shove, and it swung open, ripped half off the hinges.

We found ourselves in a small entryway littered with rubbish of all kinds. In front of us was a partly opened door, and from the light which came through it I knew it led into the room which we had looked down upon. We took one step in the direction of the door and then paused suddenly as a voice came ringing out upon the silence:

“A sacrifice to the Most High,” pealed the voice. And the tones were those of one carried away by some stern purpose. They contained not only a note of cruelty, but also one of high resolution—the voice of one from whom sanity had long since departed.

“Blood—will—wash away all sin,” chanted the voice. The tone rose higher and higher until it was almost a shriek. “Blood—a sacrifice to the Most High—” Then as the voice sank, there came a silence and the half-sobbing refrain:

“The Lord chooses his servants to punish his enemies—Blood—”

With a leap Bartley reached the half-open door and flung it wide. I was in the room at almost the same moment, and there for a second we stood. Before us, the girl lay upon the sofa, and in the first quick glance I gave I saw that she still did not move. Before her stood the unkempt figure, his suit drenched by the rain, holding in the right hand the long knife.

As we burst into the room, the man's voice died away in his throat; he whirled around and glared at us. His face was working convulsively, and the mouth was partly open, showing the long narrow teeth. The eyes glared at us in an unearthly manner, and his left hand opened and closed. He gave us one startled look—a look which contained nothing of recognition—and half gathered himself for a spring. And then suddenly there came a change in the expression of his face.

The eyes which had swept over Bartley and myself shifted their gaze to something which was behind us. As we looked, the wild expression which had glared at us began to fade away; instead there came a half-bewildered look, the faint dawning of remembrance. Slowly I saw a look of astonishment give place to the greatest horror. He gave one step in our direction and pointed a wavering hand at the object behind us. I gave a quick look to see what it might be. But only Patton stood behind us in the doorway.

Advancing very slowly, one foot in front of the other, with the outstretched hands wavering, yet ever pointing, the man took two steps in our direction. He tried to speak, and I saw the lips move in a vain effort. Then as his face worked strangely, there burst forth the words in a half shriek:

“You—you. You were killed.”

Bartley's voice broke in upon the silence, cool and sharp:

“No! You killed the wrong man.”

The uncouth figure half stumbled, and there came a despairing moan from the trembling lips. The hand dropped limply to his side. He gave one wild, appealing look around the room, then his eyes came back to Patton. I saw the veins in his forehead swell, and his face flush a vivid red. He half started to gather himself for a leap in our direction—started, only to partly turn. There came a half groan from his lips—a despairing cry, and then suddenly he fell with a crash to the floor. Fell, to move his hands convulsively for a moment, and then become very still. Carter's next-door neighbor—the minister—lay dead at our feet.