Guided by the infernal hub-
bub, I sprang to the rescue of my friend, but had
hardly taken a stride in the darkness when the whole
room blazed with a blinding white light that burned
into my brain and heart and memory a vivid pic-
ture of the combatants on the floor, Moxon under-
neath, his throat still in the clutch of those iron
hands, his head forced backward, his eyes protrud-
ing, his mouth wide open and his tongue thrust out;
and--horrible contrast!--upon the painted face
of his assassin an expression of tranquil and pro-
found thought, as in the solution of a problem in
chess! This I observed, then all was blackness and
silence.
Three days later I recovered consciousness in a
hospital. As the memory of that tragic night slowly
evolved in my ailing brain I recognized in my at-
tendant Moxon's confidential workman, Haley. Re-
sponding to a look he approached, smiling.
'Tell me about it,' I managed to say, faintly--
'all about it.'
'Certainly,' he said; 'you were carried uncon-
scious from a burning house--Moxon's. Nobody
knows how you came to be there. You may have to
do a little explaining. The origin of the fire is a bit
mysterious, too. My own notion is that the house
was struck by lightning.'
'And Moxon?'
'Buried yesterday--what was left of him.'
Apparently this reticent person could unfold him-
self on occasion. When imparting shocking intelli-
gence to the sick he was affable enough.
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