Neither Gatton nor I moved or spoke. Then:
"I have three minutes--or less," whispered Damar Greefe. "Question me.
I am at your service."
"Where is your villa?" asked Gatton suddenly.
"It is called The Laurels--"
"The Laurels!" I cried incredulously.
"It is called so," whispered the Eurasian. "It is the last house but
one in College Road! From there I conducted my last experiment with
L.K. Vapor, which resulted not in the death of Mr. Addison, but in
that of Eric Coverly--"
Gatton sprang to his feet.
"Come along, Mr. Addison!" he cried. But:
"The Laurels is empty," came, ever more faintly. "In her Sothic fury,
Nahemah fled. The bloodlust is upon her. I warn you. She is more
dangerous ... than ... any rabid dog.... Tuberculosis will end her
life ... before the snows ... come. But there is time for her to ...
Ah, God's mercy!"
He writhed. He was contorted. Foam appeared Upon his lips.
"_Hlangkuna!"_ he moaned, "_hlangkuna! She_ ... touched me with a
poisoned needle ... _two hours_--ago...."
He rose to his full height, uttered a stifled scream, and crashed down
upon the floor--dead!
In a species of consternation, Gatton and I stood looking at one
another--standing rigidly like men of stone one on either side of that
long, thin body stretched upon my study floor. The hawk face in
profile was startlingly like that of Anubis as it lay against the red
carpet.
Neither of us, I think, was capable of grasping the fact that the
inquiry was all but ended and that the mysteries which had seemed so
dark and insoluble were cleared up and the inner workings of this
strange conspiracy laid bare before us.
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