They leaped up, casting a flickering glow over the interior.

A black, shapeless figure, scarcely discernible as a man, lay huddled beneath the table.

Westcott bent over it, feeling for the heart and turning the face upward.

There was no visible mark of the bullet wound, but the body was limp, the face ghastly in the grotesque dance of the flames.

The assassin had not wasted his shot--Jose Salvari would never see Mexico again..