Okewood of the Secret Service [107]
we've ransacked the house from top to bottom without result. The fellow's not here; but by God, he'll be here presently with a bunch of police, and then it'll be too late! For the last time, Strangwise, will you clear out?"
There was a moment's pause. Then Desmond heard Strangwise's clear, calm voice.
"There's a balcony there... below the window, I mean."
"I've looked," replied Bellward, "and he's not there. You can see for yourself!"
The moment of discovery had arrived. To Desmond the strain seemed unbearable and to alleviate it, he began to count, as one counts to woo sleep. One! two! three! four! He heard a grating noise as the window was pushed further up. Five! six! seven! eight!
"Strange!"
Strangwise muttered the word just above Desmond's head. Then, to his inexpressible relief, he heard the other add:
"He's not there!"
And Desmond realized that the depth of the balcony had saved him. Short of getting out of the window, as he had done, the others could not see him.
The two men returned to the room and silence fell once more. Outside on the damp balcony in the growing darkness Desmond was fighting down the impulse to rush in and stake all in one desperate attempt to rescue the girl from her persecutors. But he was learning caution; and he knew he must bide his time.
Some five minutes elapsed during which Desmond could detect no definite sound from the red lacquer room except the occasional low murmur of voices. Then, suddenly, there came a high, quavering cry from the girl.
Desmond raised himself quickly erect, his ear turned so as to catch every sound from the room. The girl wailed again, a plaintive, tortured cry that seemed to issue forth unwillingly from her.
"My God!" said Desmond to himself, "I can't stand this!"
His head was level with the sill of the window which was fortunately broad. Getting a good grip on the rough cement with his hands, he hoisted himself up on to the sill, by the sheer force of his arms alone, sat poised there for an instant, then very lightly and without any noise, clambered through the window and into the room. Even as he did so, the girl cried out again.
"I can't! I can't!" she wailed.
Every nerve in Desmond 's body was tingling with rage. The blood was hotly throbbing against his temples and he was literally quivering all over with fury. But he held himself in check. This time he must not fail. Both those men were armed, he knew. What chance could he, unarmed as he was, have against them? He must wait, wait, that they might not escape their punishment.
Steadying the black silk curtains with his hands, he looked through the narrow chink where the two panels met. And this was what he saw.
Barbara Mackwayte was still in the chair; but they had unfastened her arms though her feet were still bound. She had half-risen from her seat. Her body was thrust forward in a strained, unnatural attitude; her eyes were wide open and staring; and there was a little foam on her lips. There was something hideously deformed, horribly unlife-like about her. Though her eyes were open, her look was the look of the blind; and, like the blind, she held her head a little on one side as though eager not to miss the slightest sound.
Bellward stood beside her, his face turned in profile to Desmond. His eyes were dilated and the sweat stood out in great beads on his forehead and trickled in broad lanes of moisture down his heavy cheeks. He was half-facing the girl and every time he bent towards her, she tugged and strained at her bonds as though to follow him.
"You say he has been here. Where is he? Where is he? You shall tell me where he is."
Bellward was speaking in a strange, vibrating voice. Every question appeared to be a tremendous nervous effort. Desmond, who was keenly sensitive to matters psychic, could almost feel the magnetic power radiating from the man. In the weird red light of the room, he could see the veins standing out like whipcords on the back of Bellward's hands.
"Tell me where he is? I command you!"
The girl wailed out again in
There was a moment's pause. Then Desmond heard Strangwise's clear, calm voice.
"There's a balcony there... below the window, I mean."
"I've looked," replied Bellward, "and he's not there. You can see for yourself!"
The moment of discovery had arrived. To Desmond the strain seemed unbearable and to alleviate it, he began to count, as one counts to woo sleep. One! two! three! four! He heard a grating noise as the window was pushed further up. Five! six! seven! eight!
"Strange!"
Strangwise muttered the word just above Desmond's head. Then, to his inexpressible relief, he heard the other add:
"He's not there!"
And Desmond realized that the depth of the balcony had saved him. Short of getting out of the window, as he had done, the others could not see him.
The two men returned to the room and silence fell once more. Outside on the damp balcony in the growing darkness Desmond was fighting down the impulse to rush in and stake all in one desperate attempt to rescue the girl from her persecutors. But he was learning caution; and he knew he must bide his time.
Some five minutes elapsed during which Desmond could detect no definite sound from the red lacquer room except the occasional low murmur of voices. Then, suddenly, there came a high, quavering cry from the girl.
Desmond raised himself quickly erect, his ear turned so as to catch every sound from the room. The girl wailed again, a plaintive, tortured cry that seemed to issue forth unwillingly from her.
"My God!" said Desmond to himself, "I can't stand this!"
His head was level with the sill of the window which was fortunately broad. Getting a good grip on the rough cement with his hands, he hoisted himself up on to the sill, by the sheer force of his arms alone, sat poised there for an instant, then very lightly and without any noise, clambered through the window and into the room. Even as he did so, the girl cried out again.
"I can't! I can't!" she wailed.
Every nerve in Desmond 's body was tingling with rage. The blood was hotly throbbing against his temples and he was literally quivering all over with fury. But he held himself in check. This time he must not fail. Both those men were armed, he knew. What chance could he, unarmed as he was, have against them? He must wait, wait, that they might not escape their punishment.
Steadying the black silk curtains with his hands, he looked through the narrow chink where the two panels met. And this was what he saw.
Barbara Mackwayte was still in the chair; but they had unfastened her arms though her feet were still bound. She had half-risen from her seat. Her body was thrust forward in a strained, unnatural attitude; her eyes were wide open and staring; and there was a little foam on her lips. There was something hideously deformed, horribly unlife-like about her. Though her eyes were open, her look was the look of the blind; and, like the blind, she held her head a little on one side as though eager not to miss the slightest sound.
Bellward stood beside her, his face turned in profile to Desmond. His eyes were dilated and the sweat stood out in great beads on his forehead and trickled in broad lanes of moisture down his heavy cheeks. He was half-facing the girl and every time he bent towards her, she tugged and strained at her bonds as though to follow him.
"You say he has been here. Where is he? Where is he? You shall tell me where he is."
Bellward was speaking in a strange, vibrating voice. Every question appeared to be a tremendous nervous effort. Desmond, who was keenly sensitive to matters psychic, could almost feel the magnetic power radiating from the man. In the weird red light of the room, he could see the veins standing out like whipcords on the back of Bellward's hands.
"Tell me where he is? I command you!"
The girl wailed out again in