A square of moonlight marked the open door that was her safety. She leaped to it, but Marcus Wray was quicker still. Her flying dress caught round her feet as he seized it. She fell headlong on the hard, oak threshold, her head striking it with a dull and awful sound. CHAPTER XXXIII. “HEAVENLY TRUE.” Over that quiet body, that had been so quick to dare and do, and need do neither any more, a furious struggle in the dark, of three men against one, who saw himself caught red-handed, and fought, not for his own life, but to kill. Then lights in the haunted room, quiet only broken by the hard breathing of panting men; Marcus Wray, with handcuffs on his wrists, held fast by two policemen in plain clothes, a small and dirty boy yelling with excitement: “That’s him! That’s the man. I told you I’d know him!” Thomas, haggard with frightened amazement, peering in at the door; behind him Cristiane, crying desperately; Mrs. Trelane in a sumptuous tea-gown, half-on, that was incongruous with her face, so wan without its rouge and powder. Davids, his hard face full of triumph, since the unraveling of the Onslow Square mystery was a glory even to him, stepped forward and touched Marcus Wray’s shoulder. “For the murder of the Earl of Abbotsford,” he said, and Wray laughed in his face. “You’ve no proofs!” he sneered. Davids drew out a broken cuff-link, a scarab from which a thin chain dangled. “I found this in your rooms,” he said, “and the other half of it one of my men found in Lord Abbotsford’s bedroom. And this boy saw you go in and go out on the day of Lord Abbotsford’s murder; saw the blue thing on your cuff as you threw the bottle that had held the poison into the middle of the traffic at the corner, to be ground to powder.” Once more Wray laughed. He had seen a laden omnibus go over the very spot where he had flung the bottle. “Powder, exactly!” he said. “And neither your boy nor your scarabs are any use without that bottle.” Yet the scarabs had staggered even him. He had forgotten to take them out; they had gone to the wash in his shirt, and his washerwoman had returned them with tears, believing she had broken off one of them in her ironing. And Wray, thinking so, too, had never given the missing scarab another thought. The whole link and the broken one had been lying openly on his dressing-table last night when the inspector had broken into his rooms. He had never thought of Abbotsford even when he fought so madly on the threshold. It was that these men had seen his attempted murder of Cristiane le Marchant that had made his case so desperate. Davids glanced at him, and at the look his lips grew dry. “I have the bottle,” the inspector said simply. “The boy kept it to play with.” Wray looked from one to the other, like a devil incarnate that is beaten. “May I ask you how you found out this rot?” He could not speak with the old voice, but he tried.