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sigh, trying to force air into his tortured lungs, and the curtain went down with a crash on a scene of pandemonium in the audience.

I bent over Cunningham. There were red, angry marks on his throat, and he was gasping painfully, his face pale as death, but he was alive and breathing, and in a few moments he looked up at me and the rest of the circle that bent over him.

“How goes it?” I asked.

“All right,” he said feebly. “I’m all right—just a little . . . out of . . . breath. Thanks,” he smiled his gratitude.

“Damn quick work,” said some member of the cast, and at that moment there came a shriek of surprise from some woman in the circle.

“Look!” she ejaculated, her eyes popping out. “Your knife!”

I looked at the dagger which was still grasped in my hand.

It was red and dripping with blood!