Shayne did, down a dimly-lit vaulted hallway, past a balustraded stairway. A woman was descending the stairway, and she reached the bottom just as Shayne passed. She wore the white uniform of a nurse and carried a napkin-covered tray. She was a full-bodied blonde of about thirty, with predatory eyes.

Shayne glanced at her as he passed and caught a fleeting, almost animal look on her face. Her lips were pouted as though in assent, though he had not spoken to her.

The maid led him on to the end of the hall and turned down a narrower one until she stopped outside a wide partly-open door and said, “They’re expecting you inside.” He hardly noticed her noiseless, gliding retreat. It took plenty of money, he reflected, to get that kind of service.

Light streamed through the narrow opening, and there was the low hum of voices. Shayne bent his head and listened but could distinguish no words. He pushed the door open a little more and looked in.

There was the sound of slithering feet on the carpet behind him. Sharp fingers dug into his arm. He turned to look into the white face of Phyllis Brighton. She looked ghastly in the dim light. The lashes were drawn back from her eyeballs as though by some mechanical device, and the pupils were so contracted that the entire eyeball seemed to consist only of smoky iris. Shayne saw that she was wearing a flimsy chiffon nightgown and that her feet were bare. Streaks of blood showed darkly red down the front of her nightgown.

He stared at her face and at the crimson stains, his mouth thin and hard. When he saw her lips begin to move, he thrust her back away from the doorway.

She spoke in a flat, low monotone. “I’ve done it. You’re too late. I’ve already done it.”

Without replying, Shayne pushed her back farther from the door and held her out at arm’s length to study her. Her eyes stared back, but he felt that they didn’t really see him. She stood stiffly erect with her gown hanging slackly from shoulders and breasts.