He waited for her on the bottom step of the
stairs, the slight smile still on his face.
Panting breaths in the darkness of the alcove--a short, furious
scuffle--he had wrested the revolver away from her, but in doing
so had unguarded the precious blue-print--she snatched at it
desperately, tearing most of it away, leaving only a corner in his
hand. He swore--tried to get it back--she jerked away.
Then suddenly a bright shaft of light split the darkness of the
alcove stairs like a sword, a spot of brilliance centered on
Fleming's face like the glare of a flashlight focused from above by
an invisible hand. For an instant it revealed him--his features
distorted with fury--about to rush down the stairs again and attack
the trembling girl at their foot.
A single shot rang out. For a second, the fury on Fleming's face
seemed to change to a strange look of bewilderment and surprise.
Then the shaft of light was extinguished as suddenly as the snuffing
of a candle, and he crumpled forward to the foot of the stairs--
struck--lay on his face in the darkness, just inside the double
doors.
Dale gave a little whimpering cry of horror.
"Oh, no, no, no," she whispered from a dry throat, automatically
stuffing her portion of the precious scrap of blue-print into the
bosom of her dress. She stood frozen, not daring to move, not
daring even to reach down with her hand and touch the body of
Fleming to see if he was dead or alive.
A murmur of excited voices sounded from the hall.
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