"And
so I drink to your success, and--"
A glass vial rolled away upon the floor--and Jimmie Dale, with a bound,
had caught the swaying figure in his arms. There was a tremor through
the man's form--then inertness. He lowered the other to the ground.
Wizard Marre was dead. It was the colourless liquid of the old Crime
Club, instantaneous in its action that--
Jimmie Dale swept his hand over his masked face, and pulled the mask
away, and looked up. She, the Tocsin; yes, it was the Tocsin; yes, it
was Marie--only the beautiful face was deadly pale--it was the Tocsin
who was standing over him, shaking him frantically by the shoulder.
"Jimmie! Quick! Quick!" she cried. "The Secret Service men! Don't you
hear them? Quick! This way!"
There was a crash, a pound upon the street door. She had caught his
hand, and was pulling him forward now out into the rear of the shed.
There was a light from the office doorway--enough to see. One of the
packing cases was tipped over, and, on hinges, made a trap door. A short
ladder led downward to where, a few feet below, two boats were moored.
"I came this way. I followed him," she said. "Quick--Jimmie!"
It took an instant, no more, to swing her through the opening, but as he
lowered her down and her hair brushed his cheek, there came a quick
half sob to Jimmie Dale's lips.
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