Upstairs was some one who had been found by this woman in an unconscious state and evidently kept in that condition through the potations of the ugly poison-laden drugs she brewed,--some one who now was doomed to die and to lie in a quicklime grave! Carefully Fairchild gained his feet; then, as silently as possible, he made for the rickety stairs, stopping now and again to listen for discovery from below.

But it did not come; the insane woman was chanting louder than ever now.

Fairchild went on.
He felt his way up the remaining stairs, a rat scampering before him; he sneaked along the wall, hands extended, groping for that broken door, finally to find it.

Cautiously he peered within, striving in vain to pierce the darkness.

At last, listening intently for the singing from below, he drew a match from his pocket and scratched it noiselessly on his trousers.