The wavering little flame showed Lizzie prostrate but vocal, in the doorway--and Dale lying on the floor of the Hidden Room, her eyes shut, and her face as drained of color as the face of a marble statue.

For one horrible instant Bailey thought she must be dead.
He rushed to her wildly and picked her up in his arms.

No--still breathing--thank God! He carried her tenderly to the only chair in the room.
"Doctor!" The Doctor, once more the physician, knelt at her side and felt for her pulse.

And Lizzie, picking herself up from where the collision with some violent body had thrown her, retrieved the smelling salts from the floor.

It was onto this picture, the candlelight shining on strained faces, the dramatic figure of Dale, now semi-conscious, the desperate rage of Bailey, that a new actor appeared on the scene.
Anderson, the detective, stood in the doorway, holding a candle--as grim and menacing a figure as a man just arisen from the dead.
"That's right!" said Lizzie, unappalled for once.