“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.