Again he heard the low tones, this time a note of danger in them,-"No fooling! Hand that money over, lively!"
With a spring, as sudden and noiseless as a panther's, Whitcomb grappled
with the man, knocking the revolver from his hand upon the bed. A
quick, desperate, silent struggle followed. Whitcomb suddenly reached
for the revolver; as he did so Darrell saw a flash of steel in the dim
light, and the next instant his friend sank, limp and motionless, upon
the bed.
"Fool!" he heard the man mutter, with an oath.
An involuntary groan escaped from Darrell's lips. Slight as was the
sound, the man heard it and turned, facing him; the latter was screened
by the curtains, and the man, seeing no one, returned to his work, but
that brief glance had revealed enough to Darrell that he knew he could
henceforth identify the murderer among a thousand. In the struggle the
mask had been partially pushed aside, exposing a portion of the man's
face. A scar of peculiar shape showed white against the olive skin,
close to the curling black hair. But to Darrell the pre-eminently
distinguishing characteristic of that face was the eyes. Of the most
perfect steel blue he had ever seen, they seemed, as they turned upon
him in that intense glance, to glint and scintillate like the points of
two rapiers in a brilliant sword play, while their look of concentrated
fury and malignity, more demon-like than human, was stamped ineffaceably
upon his brain.
Having secured as much as he could find of the money, the murderer left
hastily and silently, and a few moments later the guards, after a
warning to the passengers not to leave their berths, took their
departure.
Having partially dressed, Darrell at once sprang across the aisle and
took Whitcomb's limp form in his arms. His heart still beat faintly, but
he was unconscious and bleeding profusely. All had been done so silently
and swiftly that no one outside of Darrell dreamed of murder, and soon
the enforced silence began to be broken by hurried questions and angry
exclamations. A man cursed over the loss of his money and a woman sobbed
hysterically. Suddenly, Darrell's incisive tones rang through the
sleeper.
"For God's sake, see if there is a surgeon aboard! Here is a man
stabbed, dying; don't stop to talk of money when a life is at stake!"
Instantly all thought of personal loss was for the time forgotten, and
half a dozen men responded to Darrell's appeal. When it became known
throughout the train what had occurred, the greatest excitement
followed. Train officials, hurrying back and forth, stopped, hushed and
horror-stricken, beside the section where Darrell sat holding Whitcomb
in his arms. Passengers from the other coaches crowded in, eager to
offer assistance that was of no avail. A physician was found and came
quickly to the scene, who, after a brief examination, silently shook his
head, and Darrell, watching the weakening pulse and shortening gasps,
needed no words to tell him that the young life was ebbing fast.