White-lipped she burst out laughing, kicked the shroud out of the way, thrust the pistol into his right hand, went forward, forcing him along beside her, and drew the bolts from the door. Suddenly he spoke distinctly: “Is there anything outside that door on the landing?” “Yes.... I don’t know what. Are you ready?” She laid her hand on lock and knob. He nodded. At the same instant she jerked open the door; and a hunchback who had been picking at the lock fell headlong into the room, his pistol exploding on the carpet in a streak of fire. It was a horrible struggle to secure the powerful misshapen creature, for he clawed and squealed and bounced about on the floor, striking blindly with ape-like arms. But at last Cleves held him down, throttled and twitching, and Tressa ripped strips from the shroud to truss up the writhing thing. Then Cleves switched on the light. “Why—why—you rat!” he exclaimed in hysterical relief at seeing a living man whom he recognised there at his feet. “What are you doing here?” The hunchback’s red eyes blazed up at him from the floor. “Who—who is he?” faltered the girl. “He’s a German tailor named Albert Feke—one of the Chicago Bolsheviki—the most dangerous sort we harbour—one of their vile leaders who preaches that might is right and tells his disciples to go ahead and take what they want.” He looked down at the malignant cripple. “You’re wanted for the I. W. W. bomb murder, Albert. Did you know it?” The hunchback licked his bloody lips. Then he kicked himself to a sitting position, squatted there like a toad and looked steadily at Tressa Norne out of small red-rimmed eyes. Blood dripped on his beard; his huge hairy fists, tied and crossed behind his back, made odd, spasmodic movements. Cleves went to the telephone. Presently Tressa heard his voice, calm and distinct as usual: “We’ve caught Albert Feke. He’s here at my rooms. I’d like to have you come over, Recklow.... Oh, yes, he kicked and scuffled and scratched like a cat.... What?... No, I hadn’t heard that he’d been in China.... Who?... Albert Feke? You say he was one of the Germans who escaped from Shantung four years ago?... You think he’s a Yezidee! You mean one of the Eight Assassins?” The hunchback, staring at Tressa out of red-rimmed eyes, suddenly snarled and lurched his misshapen body at her. “Teufelstuck!” he screamed, “ain’t I tell efferybody in Yian already it iss safer if we cut your throat! Devil-slut of Erlik—snow-leopardess!—cat of the Yezidees who has made of Sanang a fool!—it iss I who haf said always, always, that you know too damn much!... Kai!... I hear my soul bidding me farewell. Gif me my shroud!” Cleves came back from the telephone. With the toe of his left foot he lifted the shroud and kicked it across the hunchback’s knees. “So you were one of the huns who instigated the massacre in Yian,” he said, curiously. At that Tressa turned very white and a cry escaped her.