Templeton Druid was getting the worst of it. That was plain. He had been down twice and was terribly groggy. Both men were bleeding profusely and indiscriminately over the room which looked as if a cyclone had struck it. A half stifled, hysterical shriek at some telling bloody blow from one of the women, a groan, or muffled mumble of admiration from the men guests who were watching as eagerly as at any mill in the padded ring was all that could be heard above the labored breathing of the battlers, save the steady hysterical sobbing of Elinor Benton from her corner. Rugs were torn up, furniture overturned, priceless bric-a-brac fell with a crash that added to the general ensemble; the grinning Buddha toppled from his pedestal and crashed into a thousand pieces, his grin alone looking up from the floor in the midst of his shattered features. Templeton Druid dropped to the floor with finality. Men sprang forward, thinking it was the end, when slowly he began to pull himself up again. His hand went to his hip-pocket, and he pulled forth a small revolver. Howard saw it at the moment its shine appeared and leapt for it. A struggle—more furious than ever for a moment. A shot rang out. Templeton Druid staggered, threw his hands in the air, and fell, face downward on the torn, blood-stained Persian rug. Howard Benton stood over the crumpled figure on the rug with the shining revolver in his hand. He looked at it half understandingly, as though it were a strange thing he had never seen before—that he could not recognize. Then it dropped from his nerveless fingers with a clatter among the pieces of the broken Buddha. His eyes shifted aimlessly about, to fix themselves once more on the huddled figure at his feet. “My God!” he gasped. “I’ve killed him!” In the speechless pause, Elinor Benton’s shrieks rent the air wildly. She staggered from her corner, throwing aside hands that with kindly intent sought to restrain her, to fall prone on the still form on the floor, her gown drinking in the crimson that flowed out darkly across the polished floor. “Oh, my darling! Speak to me!” she moaned and pleaded. “I don’t care for anyone in the world! I love you! Oh—speak to me! Speak to me!” The quiet that had reigned during the encounter became turmoil. Trembling, wild-eyed, Druid’s valet’s white face appeared at the door. Westley rushed to him. “Is there a doctor in the building?” he howled. The man’s teeth chattered as his shuddering glance took in the scene. “Yes, sir,” he stuttered. “On the ground floor.” “Get him!” commanded the movie actor.