Light after light is turned out. The main
hall has at last no tenants but the night watchman and the police,
waiting by the dead gambler. He lies prone on the floor, awaiting
his last judge, the city coroner. This genial official is sought
from his cards and cups, to certify the causes of death of the
outcast of society. A self-demonstrating problem. The gaping wound
tells its story.
Valois is speechless and stunned with the quickness of the deadly
quarrel. He gloomily watches Hardin supporting the fainting woman.
Slowly her eyes unclose. They meet Hardin's in one long, steadfast,
inscrutable glance. She shudders and says, "Take me away." She
covers her siren face with her jewelled hands, to avoid the sight
of the waxy features and stiffening form of the thing lying there.
Ten minutes ago it was the embodiment of wildest human passion and
tiger-like activity. Vale, "French Charlie."
Hardin has quickly sent for several influential friends. On their
arrival he is permitted to leave, escorted by a policeman. The
shaken sorceress, whose fatal beauty has thrown two determined
men against each other in a sudden duel to the death, walks at his
side. There is a bond of blood sealed between them.
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