"That you will never have, and you are a scoundrel to ask for it. As
you like--there are other exits than the door." He swung round and
made for the open window.
Travers did not stop him. He stood rooted to the spot, his hand on the
revolver which he carried at his side. The revolver had not been meant
for Stafford. Travers' quick eyes had caught sight of something
creeping slowly and stealthily up the verandah steps. He had seen the
flash of a knife, and a cry of warning had rushed to his lips. The cry
was never uttered. Devil and angel fought their last battle over
Travers' drifting, rudderless nature. The word "scoundrel" had been
the devil's winning cast.
"Go, then, and be damned to you!" Travers shrieked.
He saw Stafford reach the verandah steps. The stalwart khaki-clad figure
was photographed on his reeling brain. He heard the clank of a sword
against the first stone step. He tried to cry out--afterward he tried
to believe that he had cried out--but it was too late. The hidden
something which had crouched behind the heavy creepers sprang up--for
a short second seemed to tower above the unconscious officer--then a
gleam of light flashed down with the black hand. Stafford flung up his
arms, swung around, and fell face downward on the verandah. There was a
short, stifled groan, and then--and then only--Travers fired.
[Illustration: Then--and then only--Travers fired.]
CHAPTER VI
CLEARING AWAY THE RUBBISH
All the night following the momentous meeting of the Marut Diamond
Company Mrs.
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