"It is dated tomorrow," Ghalil pointed out. "Which could be an error of timing, or a confusion in time itself. But I do not think so. Certainly it seems to imply, Mr. Mannard, that you are to die tonight, or surely tomorrow morning. But on the other hand, Mr. Coghlan will not write with certainty of your death when he does write in that book. So there is hope--"

"I have no intention of dying tonight," said Mannard angrily. "No intention at all!"

"Nor," said Lieutenant Ghalil, "have I any intention of forwarding such a project. But I can think of no precautions that are not already in force."

Appolonius sat down abruptly, as if his knees had given way beneath him. His sudden movement drew all eyes. "Has something occurred to you?" asked Ghalil mildly.

Appolonius shivered. "It--occurs to me--" he paused to moisten his lips--"to tell of my visit with Mr. Coghlan today. I--accused him of mystification."

He admitted that there was a conspiracy. He--offered to admit me to it. I--I now accuse Mr. Coghlan of designing to murder Mr. Mannard!" The lights went out. There was dead blackness in the room. Instantly there was an impact of body against body. Then groaning, gasping breaths in the darkness. Men struggled and strained. There were thumpings. Laurie cried out. Then Ghalil's voice panted, as if his breathing were much impeded."You--happen to be strangling me, Mr. Coghlan! I think that I am--strangling him! If we can only hold him until the lights--he is very strong--"The struggle went on in the darkness on the floor.

VII

There was a frantic scratching of a pass-key in the door to the suite. Flashlight beams licked in the opening. Men rushed in, their lights concentrating on the squirming heap of bodies on the floor. Mannard stood embattled before Laurie, ready to fight all comers. The men with flashlights rushed past him, threw themselves upon the struggle. They had Appolonius the Great on his feet, still fighting like a maniac, when the lights flashed back into brightness as silently and unreasonably as they had gone out. Coghlan stood back, his coat torn, a deep scratch on his face. Lieutenant Ghalil bent down and began to search the floor. After a moment he found what he looked for. He straightened with a crooked Kurdish knife in his hand. He spoke in Turkish to the uniformed police, against whom fat little Appolonius still struggled in feverish silence. They marched him out. He still jumped and writhed, like a suitful of fleshy balloons. Ghalil held out the 

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