They left the three Spanish-Americans to make their way out as best they could. If de Socotra failed to return to their aid, they could always throw up the windows and call on the neighbors. It would be up to them to explain how they came to be in such a plight. It was a dejected little crowd that made its way back through the dark, cold streets to Bessie Bickle's. Estuban was furiously angry at being balked of his purpose. "Why did you stop me?" he cried. Greg was not quite frank in replying. "I couldn't help myself," he said. "Richly as he deserved it, I couldn't stand by and let you shoot down an unarmed man." "We'll never get him now," muttered Estuban, and relapsed into a sullen silence. Greg's own state of mind was not an enviable one. To be so nearly successful and then have his man flout him to his face, and get away laughing--it was too much! His heart burned in his breast. Promise or no promise, he knew there would be no peace in life for him until he had squared accounts with that smiling scoundrel. As soon as they opened the kitchen door they saw from Bessie's pale face and shaken manner that something fresh had happened on this night of nights. Thinking of Amy Greg's breast went cold. "What is it?" he demanded. The answer relieved his worst fears. "He's gone," stammered Bessie, "the Spaniard up-stairs." "Dead?" said Greg astonished. "Aye, he's dead all right. I went up just now to have a look at him. He's lying there----" Bessie shuddered. "I left him till you come." "And Amy?" "She's all right. Asleep. She don't know." "Send one of the boys for the doctor," said Greg. "I'll go up alone first." The light in Greg's room was still burning. De Silva was lying on his back on the bed his eyes open and staring.... Small wonder Bessie had been frightened. One arm hung down over the edge of the bed, the hand lying palm upward and open on the floor. A little bright object had rolled from the nerveless fingers. Greg picked it up, a hypodermic needle. On the bureau its case lay open. Beside the bed for the needle it held space for a vial of some blackish fluid; no doubt a further supply of the poison that killed with a lightning stroke. Under the little shagreen case was a folded paper addressed in pencil to "Gregory Parr." Greg opened it with fingers that trembled a little and read: