My smash of the glass, with Keeban’s yell--and more than that, his example--had given the start. Now shots were speeding them along. I didn’t know who was shooting; they were out of the laboratories; and still they were going away. I had that ceiling over the glass room open; I did that before I cut my cords. Now, by sawing against the glass, I freed my wrists and I had off Doris’s cords. The fight outside--still I did not know who was fighting--had passed from that wide room where the elevator was; it went farther or it went down. I got out of the glass room and around to that cock in the pipe which Keeban had turned. The valve was turned tight; no doubt about it; for I twisted it half a turn open and twisted it back again to make sure. “He didn’t give you the gas!” I called to Doris. “It wasn’t turned on!” Then he came back into the room, bloody and leaping; and he was Jerry! The change, which I’d given up hoping for, had come over him. “Steve!” he called to me. “Steve! Come down and see him. I’ve got him. Christina croaked him cold! And I’ve got him! Come down and see him!” “Who?” I said; for I was shaky; and in my mind, then, there was only one of them. “Keeban!” he told me. “He’s cold, downstairs where Christina croaked him.” XXII A CROAKING AND FINIS. Doris was up and she was steady. “You didn’t get the gas,” Jerry was telling her. She said nothing to him. It was harder for her than for me to understand what he had done; yet she got it before I did. “You’re Jerry Fanneal,” she said to him. “That’s me.” He went to a window and threw up the sash and flung back the shutter. He fired three shots in the air. “You were here--not Harry Vine--just now.” “He’s been cold for half an hour. That’s what delayed you.” “What?” “Christina stopped to croak him, Harry Vine, Keeban. She wouldn’t take a chance.” He was wiping blood from his shoulder where he’d been hurt. I was bloody in several spots and Margaret was wiping that off me. “Come along,” said Jerry: and he took us downstairs. And there he lay--himself in duplicate--dead on the floor. He had been stabbed through the throat. I bent over him and, with Jerry himself bending beside me, still I got a shock at seeing him. “Two of you,” I said over and over. “Two of you.” I was still shaken, you see. “Two of us!” said Jerry, and he touched that body so identical with his own. “The difference between us was this: when he was turned loose, he walked the wrong way across the Lincoln Park grass.” “Two of you!” I said and straightened, my arm on Jerry’s shoulder. “See here! When we were boys, with our beds side by side, what was the book you kept underneath to read in the mornings?” “The Wonder Clock,” he told me. “And the story you liked best of all?” “‘One Good Turn Deserves Another.’” “Jerry!” I cried to him; and I stood there holding to him, staring down at Keeban.