Carlos merely glanced at the envelope, and then his gaze immediately returned to the piece of paper he held in his hand.
“Seven o’clock,” he repeated, and uttered the words over and over again in a low, husky voice. “Good Heaven! how horrible!”
But in the midst of it all he was calm enough to reflect.
“This paper,” he thought, “is a fragment of something my uncle was writing. Where is the other part?”
And he looked on the table and on the floor. His search was fruitless.
But again the pool of blood met his eye, and again the sickly, deathly feeling passed over him.
“Murdered!” he exclaimed, “in the night! Ah, who could have done it?”
At that instant he heard a sound without—it was unmistakable this time—and then he suddenly realized his position. What if he were discovered there at that hour, alone with that dead body, which had so recently been living, acting, moving? There could be but one conclusion. He would be accused of being a murderer.
Horrified at the thought, he leaped from the window, only to be met by the stalwart figure of a man, large in stature, and threatening in aspect, bearing in his hand a long, gleaming knife. He had on a black mask, and was advancing slowly, his hand raised as if to strike at an instant’s warning.
Carlos stopped in terror, regarding the mysterious figure in silence, and awaiting its onslaught.
A conflict seemed inevitable, and, gazing for an instant heavenward, he prayed for strength. Then, with sudden resolve, he stood erect, and braced his nerves for whatever might follow.
CHAPTER IV. AFIGHT AND A FLIGHT.
A FIGHT AND A FLIGHT.
Carlos and the stranger paused, regarding each other with the quick calculation of antagonists measuring their opponents’ strength.
“You killed my uncle,” said Carlos, in a low tone.
“Your uncle! No—you killed him!”
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