"Oh, this is bad," he said, as he set him down and stooped to examine him. "I fear I've made a terrible mistake. Mister Cummings," (this was the orderly), "Run like the Devil! Fetch my personal physician. Tell him what has happened, and that I fear for the Secretary's heart. I'll do what I can to make him comfortable here: we dare not try to move him." The man turned pale with fright, then rushed headlong down the steps. As soon as he was out of sight and hearing, Ballard set the torch in its iron mount, and allowed himself to smile in earnest. "Got to hand it to you, Governor. That was a fine piece of work. He'll be nine parts down before he remembers he can't get out without my key. And he's half winded as it is." "You must not take that for granted!" growled Purceville, himself not immune to the rigors of the climb. "Did you bring the flask as I told you?" "Of course." And a look of reproach. "Then give it to me. Now !" Ballard glared at him, but the other was not even looking. He lifted the tin from his pocket, and placed it in Purceville's outstretched hand. Burning with rage, Henry Purceville took the fine embroidered handkerchief from the breast pocket of the crumpled man. Then soaked it with water, and brought it slowly toward his face. "What are you going to do?" ejaculated Arthur helplessly. But his voice had been reduced to a cracked whisper, and his imagined safety deserted him. "This is for the soldiers, your Highness . And for me." And the son of a sailor stuffed the cloth full into his mouth. Then with one great hand holding the jaw shut, he pinched off the nose with the other, and stopped all flow of air. The old man could not endure it long. Suffocating, struggling to breathe and break free, his heart gave one last, violent pump, then seized and ceased forever. The life slowly left his body, and his eyes sank deeper in their sockets. Earl Emerson Arthur, was dead. But a moment later a sound became audible below: the soft rasp of leather on stone. The orderly was returning. Purceville reached hurriedly into the dead man's mouth and began to pull out the soiled cloth, but too late. The orderly turned the final arc, his head rising above the floor of the landing. . .and he saw. The scene before him, the events of the entire evening, required no further explanation. "You--- You've killed him!" And though weary to his very bones, the man whirled and flew down the steps once more. For now his own life was in danger, and the fear of death worked like lightning on his limbs, still young enough to respond. It could not occur to him that he was still trapped inside the tower (as he had realized halfway down), or that all its doors remained locked to him. He only knew that these men would try to kill him, and that he still wanted to live. "What are you waiting for?" bellowed Purceville at his Lieutenant. "Go after him!" But Ballard stood very still, his eyes narrowing.