Zahara tilted her head on to her shoulder and
cast a languorous glance into the shadows masking the watchful
Spaniard.
She could see his eyes gleaming like those of a wild beast. An
icy finger seemed to touch her heart. He had lied to her! She
knew it, suddenly, intuitively. Well, she would see. She also
had guile.
With a little scornful laugh Zahara tossed the rose on to the
knees--of Agapoulos.
The sound of three revolver shots fired in quick succession rang
out above the throbbing music. Agapoulos clutched at his shirt
front with both hands, uttered a stifled scream and tried to
stand up. He coughed, and glaring straight in front of him fell
forward across a little coffee table laden with champagne bottles
and glasses.
Coincident with the crash made by his falling body came the loud
bang of a door. The Spaniard had gone.
"By God, sir! It's murder, it's murder!" cried the same husky
voice which had commented upon the beauty of Zahara.
There was a mingling, purposeless movement. Someone ran to the
door--to find that it was locked from the outside. Mr. Eddie,
now recognizable by his accent, came toward the prone man, dazed,
horrified, and grown very white. Zahara, a beautiful, tragic
figure, in her flaming cloak, stood looking down at the dead man.
Pages:
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311