“Then the Gräfin is in with you,” I said.

“It’s not fair,” Tony said wildly. “Everybody’s guilty. There’s only supposed to be one criminal. What about Miss Burton?”

“She is innocent, if that consoles you any. Arrogant, stupid, and innocent.”

“Nolan, don’t you see you’re being used?” Tony demanded. “That old bitch is in the clear. She’ll end up with the shrine, after you’ve killed Irma, and you’ll end up in the chair, or whatever they use in this country. You’re a stooge, buddy; a lousy cat’s-paw.”

For the first—and last—time in his life, he hit George where it hurt. The big white grin disappeared. George took a step forward, almost stumbling over Irma, and Tony braced himself. I got ready to jump. Then I saw two things.

One was a hand, whose whitened fingers were curled gruesomely over the edge of the topmost step. The other was Irma’s eyes—wide open.

“No,” I said hysterically. “No, don’t! Don’t kill us!” I threw myself onto my knees, yelped as the gritty stone bit into my lacerated skin, and wriggled gracefully forward until my body was between George and the stairwell.

It was no use. George’s gun stayed smack on Tony’s liver, and Blankenhagen followed his hand out onto the roof.

He looked like death walking—tattered, bloody, smeared with dust and cobwebs. He was an automaton, moving by pure will. It was so awful it was fascinating; I half expected to see him walk stiff-legged into a hail of bullets, like the monster out of Frankenstein.

Everybody has his limits, though, and Blankenhagen reached his. He fell to his knees, his eyes crossed and his mouth half open.

“What do I have to do, use a meat cleaver?” George demanded irritably. “All right; you’ll be out of your misery in just a few seconds.”

I didn’t see exactly what happened. My eyes, like those of the others, were fixed on Blankenhagen. I saw enough, though, to keep my dreams uneasy for some time to come. Suddenly Irma was up on her hands and knees. George’s arms were in the air, flailing frantically. I’ll never forget the expression on his face. The sudden change from triumph to failure, and his awareness of it, were blended with the most ghastly terror. For a moment he tottered on the edge of oblivion. Then he was gone. His scream came up like a shriek of anguish from some bodiless ghost borne through the air by the scudding clouds. It ended in another sound. Then there was silence.

I looked at Irma. She had risen to one knee. Her arm was lifted in the gesture that had just sent a man to a messy death. Her black hair was whipped about her face by the wind, and her eyes were enormous.

“Well,” said Tony weakly, “well, well, well…”

He might have gone on like that indefinitely if Irma had not interrupted.

“He would have killed you,” she cried, gesturing from Tony to the prostrate form of the doctor. “Should I lie still and see him kill you?”