And then there came a cry--a cry in a woman's voice;
"_Marre!_"
It was the Tocsin's voice from the rear doorway of the office. It was
her voice; Jimmie Dale could never mistake it even in its startled
cry--but he did not look. His eyes were on the man who was standing on
the other side of the overturned table, whose beard where he, Jimmie
Dale, had grasped the other's face had been wrenched away, and whose
shrunken figure seemed to tower up now in height, and whose deformity
was a padded coat, awry now because of the erect and upright posture in
which the man stood. It was Clarke, the master of disguise, who once had
impersonated Travers, the chauffeur; it was Marre--Wizard Marre.
There was a ghastly smile on the man's face.
"Marre," he said. "Yes--Marre. But you never knew it, did you, Miss
LaSalle--until now! Well, now is time enough for you, and far too soon
for me!" He flung out his hand in a queer, impotent gesture, as he threw
back his shoulders. "But I would like to be thought a good loser. I
congratulate you, Miss LaSalle!" Again his hand was raised in
gesture--and with lightning swiftness, before Jimmie Dale could
intervene, swept to his vest pocket and was carried to his mouth.
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