The noise banished the last of the drug mists from Florence's reviving brain. She's at up, dazedly, and glanced about her.
She was just in time to see the two masked men make a dash for the closet—the only available place of concealment in sight. One of them reached the closet a stride ahead of the other. Jumped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. The second masked figure tugged frantically at the khob to get in. But the man inside was evidently holding the door shut against him in a frenzy of self-preservation.
And at that moment the room filled with policemen. Florence started up dizzily from her chair, pointing to the masked man who still lugged at the closet door knob. "Take him!" she shrilled wildly to the police. "Take him! He is the murderer of Truxton Lambert!"
At a word from the lieutenant in charge of the squad of police hurled themselves upon the masked man. He made no resistance.
"Bring him over here to the light," ordered the lieutenant. "So! Now rip off that mask and let's set a look at him."
Sooner than the word was spoken, a half-dozen hands had torn away the hooded mask and the enveloping domino. The mysterious man stood revealed to the wondering eyes of his captors.
He was Harold Stanley.
"How did you get here?" cried Florence in the same breath.
It was Florence's query that Stanley answered.
"How did I get here?" he repeated. 