.."
Godfrey stepped to the inner door and flashed his torch about the
room. The divan was empty.
Simmonds paused only for a single glance.
"He can't be far away!" he said. "He can't get away in that white robe
of his. Come along, Tom!" and, followed by his assistant, he plunged
down the stairs.
I saw Godfrey half-turn to follow; then he stopped, ran his hand along
the wall inside the door, found the button, and turned on the lights.
His face was pale and angry.
"It's my fault as much as anyone's," he said savagely. "I might have
known Silva would see the game was up, and try to slip away in the
excitement. I ought to have kept an eye on him."
"Your eyes were fairly busy as it was," I remarked. "Besides, maybe he
hasn't got away."
Godfrey's face, as he glanced about the room, showed that he cherished
no such hope.
"Let's see what happened to Mahbub," he said. "Maybe he got away,
too," and he crossed to the inner door.
The flame in the brazier had died away, and the smoke came only in
fitful puffs, heavy with deadening perfume. The Thug had not got away.
He lay on the floor--a dreadful sight. He was lying on his back, his
hands clenched, his body arched in a convulsion, his head drawn far
back.
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