AN ASTONISHING DISCOVERY
The room was not elaborately furnished, but every piece was good of its
kind. Mr. Banks worked busily, moving about stealthily on the toes of
his great boots. He had shed his coat, by this time, and rid his right
arm of the dangling length of rope. Atop the hinged slats of the bed he
placed a substantial chest of drawers, thus reënforcing the barricade
and squaring himself with the ingenious slats by one and the same move.
"It will take a bigger man than Wigmore to get in at me now," murmured
the sportsman.
He was tremendously pleased with his job, but did not waste much time in
admiring it. Now that he was secure from interruption for a while, at
least, was the time to develop the possibilities of the window. He would
try to attract the attention of some passer-by. If there did not happen
to be any passer-by, which was frequently the case, in Samson's Mill
Settlement, for hours at a time--then he would join the pieces of rope
with which he had been bound, lengthen the result with a blanket, and
lower himself into the free outside world. Old Wigmore might shoot at
him through the panels of the door, but he was more than willing to take
the risk of being hit by such blind shooting. Once outside, he felt that
he would be safe. Not even the mad captain was mad enough to murder him
in open sight of the road and fields. These reflections occupied his
mind during the seconds in which he turned from his contemplation of the
barricade. He made one step toward the window, and then----
"Halt!" exclaimed the voice of Captain Wigmore, shrill, clear and
menacing. Banks halted, with a gasp, and turned his face toward the
hateful sound. To his dismay, he beheld the devilish face of the old man
leering horribly within seven feet of him, through a square and
unsuspected aperture in the door. With a low cry of defiance and nervous
fright, he tried to set his limbs in motion again. Would his feet never
move? He seemed to pass through a whole minute of terrific but futile
exertion. It was like a grotesque nightmare of childhood
days--grotesque, but horrible. He saw the old man's hand appear beside
the leering face. In the hand was that queerly shaped pistol. And still
his feet clung to the floor as if they were lead! A dull, feeble,
popping report came to his aching ears. And then something gripped his
windpipe with huge, hard fingers; some one struck him to earth with a
gigantic balloon; a blank wave curled about him, fell upon him, pounded
the life from his battling lungs, and dragged him, limp and dead, to the
unsounded depths.
Captain Wigmore had discharged his chemical pistol in the big
sportsman's face. That is all. He had slipped the panel, cried halt,
raised his hand, and pulled the trigger, all within two seconds of time.
When Mr. Banks recovered consciousness for the second time since
crawling into Wigmore's house, he felt much worse than he had on the
first occasion. He felt very, very sick at the very pit of his stomach.
His poor head was in a terrible way. At one moment his brains seemed to
be floating far above him, light and thin as smoke, and at the next they
lay heavily, but loosely, in his sore skull, like a fragment of iron,
sliding from side to side. He lay flat, and groaned. Half an hour passed
before he ventured to sit up and open his eyes. Absolute darkness
surrounded him. He felt about with his hands, and found that he was
lying on a folded blanket. He inquired further, and discovered that his
new lodging was nothing but a tiny closet, about seven feet deep, and
four feet wide, with a steeply sloping roof. The roof was made of a
series of sharp-cornered humps. He bumped his head against one of
them--and that enlightened him. He was in a closet under a staircase.
His fur coat had been left in the bedroom; but, fortunately, the closet
was not very cold. After another and briefer rest upon the flat of his
back, he decided to try a smoke. He thrust a hand slowly into one
pocket, less slowly into another, then swiftly and desperately into
pocket after pocket. All were empty! Not so much as a match had been
left to him; not so much as a crumb of tobacco.
The rage which this discovery inspired in the breast of Mr. Banks was
out of all proportion to the seriousness of his loss. The effect upon
him was stupendous. Sandbagging, binding, and pistoling had all failed
to lift him to such a height of resentment at this. Why, even he could
not have explained. His big boots were left to him--and his voice, such
as it was. He began to shout and stamp his feet on the floor. His voice
limbered up, and grew in strength, until the dry-tongued cry became a
gigantic bellow. The feet pounded up and down until they encountered the
door; and then they began to swing back and forth. The door winced and
shook at every blow. It was a strong door, however, hung on massive
hinges, fastened with a big lock, and barred in three places with rods
of iron. Wigmore had taken no chances with this door. He had fixed
things this time so that his prisoner was put to stay. That was his
idea, anyway.
At last, reeling and breathless from his exertions, Banks sank to the
floor, and lay still and silent. For a little while his head span
sickeningly, and his mind and senses lay torpid; but only for a little
while. This outbreak had done him good--had revived him to the finger
tips. He sat up presently and listened for the approach of his enemy.
Surely all that bellowing and thumping would bring him.
"If he opens that door, pistol or no pistol, it'll be the end of him,"
remarked the New Yorker. And he meant it. He was ready for murder. He
raised himself to his knees, ascertained the position of the door with
his hand, and faced it, waiting in savage expectancy.
At last his straining ears caught a sound. It was a very faint sound,
and it came from the left instead of from the door. It was repeated--a
faint, furtive tapping, like the tapping of a flipped finger against
plaster. He moved cautiously toward the sound. It came again. He put out
his hand, and touched the rough lath and plaster of the wall. How frail
the barrier felt! He stood up very cautiously. "It may be a mouse--and
it may be Wigmore--but it is worth trying," he whispered. Then he swung
his right foot backward slowly, and brought it forward with all the
force that lay in that long and muscular shank. A sound of cracking
plaster and splintered laths rewarded and encouraged him. He steadied
himself, with one hand on the door and one on the slope of the
staircase, and settled down to kicking. His boot was thick, his leg
strong, and his heart in the job. Things cracked and smashed and
splintered. At last he knelt and advanced an inquiring hand. The
blackness was full of the dust of powdered plaster. He found a
ragged-edged break in the wall, and thrust his hand into it.
Mr. Banks snatched his hand back to his own side of the pierced
partition, at the same time uttering a sharp cry of dismay. Nothing had
hurt him; but in the blackness beyond his own narrow blackness his
fingers had encountered flesh--the flesh of a human nose and eyebrow. He
sagged back on his haunches, limp and trembling. Whatever he had
expected to find, this was not it.
"Who is there? Speak! Who is there?" he whispered.
No voice answered him; but again he heard that thin rapping, like the
flipping of a finger against a hard, dry surface. It was a trifle louder
this time, but in exactly the same position.
"Can't you speak? Speak, for Heaven's sake!" cried Banks.
This time he was answered by a low, muffled, strangled groan. He
searched his pockets again, with shaking fingers; and, at last, in a
little roll of woolen dust in the corner of his match pocket, he found
one wax match. This first seemed such a great and joyful thing to him
that he had difficulty in restraining his laughter.
"Wigmore, you old devil, here's where I have you at last!" he exclaimed.
"You're a fool! You should have picked my pockets thoroughly while you
were about it. This little match will prove your undoing--as sure as my
name is Harvey P. Banks!"
He began to chuckle--and the sound of his chuckling quieted and steadied
him in a flash. "That won't do," he said. "That sounds downright
idiotic. I must keep a grip on myself."
With his left hand he found a safe and suitable spot on the wall for the
striking of the precious match; and then, with his trembling right hand,
he struck it. The little flame hissed into existence, then caught the
wax, and burned clear and quiet. He crouched low, and thrust the burning
match through the hole in the lath and plaster, and into the chamber
beyond, by the length of his arm. The hole was about three feet long and
twelve or fifteen inches wide. He shuffled forward and thrust his head
between the jaws of ragged plaster and splintered laths.
The match lit a closet even smaller than the one in which Banks lay.
Banks beheld rough walls, a sloping roof, a door, and, directly under
his hand, a small human figure, bound and gagged.
"Timothy Fletcher!" he exclaimed. "So this is New York--for you!"
The old man's bright eyes blinked like an owl's. He lay close against
the wall, and now Banks saw one finger--one free finger--dart out and
tap the plaster.
"Roll away from the hole," said Banks. Then the match scorched him, and
he withdrew his hand and head. He sat back for a second or two,
considering the situation.
"The old fiend!" he muttered. "He must be mad--or the devil himself.
This explains the other thing that happened to poor Fletcher--the attack
in the woods. Oh, the cunning old beast!"
Now he set to work with his hands, tearing away the light materials of
the wall in strips and lumps. He put his hand through, found that
Fletcher had rolled away, and then wriggled through himself. It was a
tight passage, but at last it was safely accomplished. To remove the gag
from Fletcher's stiff jaws was the work of a few seconds. To untie and
unwind the complicated knots and cords that bound the old fellow's body
and limbs took fully half an hour. During that time, Fletcher did not
say one word.
For a little while after the freeing of Timothy Fletcher, Banks sagged
weakly against the floor. His head was spinning again. He closed his
eyes against the blackness, and began to drift off into a delightful,
restful dream. He was all done--all in--down and out! What was the good
of worrying? What was the good of anything? He had escaped from his
cell. He had found Fletcher and set him free. He had earned his rest.
Timothy Fletcher dragged himself over to where Mr. Banks sagged against
the door like a big, half-empty sack. Having spent half an hour in
moving his tongue up and down, and round and round in his mouth, he now
found himself in possession of a fragment of voice. Also, the blood was
beginning to move in his arms and legs again. His mind was as clear as
glass. He fastened his thin fingers in his rescuer's collar, and shook
that careless head until it flopped and knocked against the door.
"Wake up!" he croaked. "Wake up! We got to get out of here."
Banks opened his eyes, and, in the dark, grabbed Fletcher with his big
hands. For a moment he mistook the servant for the master, and, with a
sudden, furious surge of strength, he shook him as a terrier shakes a
rat. Fletcher yelled, and clawed the sportsman in the face. Then Banks
realized what he was doing.
"Sorry," he gasped. "I was half asleep. How are we to get out?"
Fletcher did not answer immediately, but lay panting in the dust. At
last he raised himself to his hands and knees. "This door," he
whispered. "It is locked--that is all. You are strong. We must get out!
Quick! Smash it!"
Mr. Banks got to his feet, and found the position of the door. He moved
slowly. He laughed softly.
"Stand out of the way--out of the danger zone," he cautioned. "I'm going
to kick. I can kick like an army mule."
"Kick! Kick!" croaked Timothy Fletcher, crouching off to one side.
"There's drink downstairs. Food an' drink."
Banks balanced himself, lifted his right knee high against his
waistcoat, and shot forward his right heel. With a rending of wood and
ripping of dislodged screws, the door flew open, letting a flood of
faint moonlight into the black closet. Banks staggered forward, fell
flat on the floor outside, then nipped to his feet again as nimble as a
cat. Weariness and sickness were forgotten. He felt superior to anything
old Wigmore might try to do.
Fletcher staggered up, and reeled against the New Yorker.
"He'll shoot--if he's home," he gabbled. "Get hold of a chair--to let
fly at him. Kill him if you see him! He's mad! Kill him like a rat!"
"You bet," replied Banks. "If I see him--then God pity him! Ah!"
He saw a heavy chair standing by the moonlit window. He ran forward,
seized it by the back, and lifted it. He whirled it around his head. He
felt strong enough to annihilate a score of maniacs.
"This will do. Come on," he whispered.
They went down a flight of heavily carpeted stairs to the lower hall.
The winter moonshine lit the place faintly. Banks went ahead, with the
big chair ready in front of him, and poor old Timothy crawling at his
heels. The house was quiet as death. They reached the hall. Banks'
anxious eye caught sight of the shadow of a curtain at the door of the
dining room. The big chair hurtled through the air, and burst against
the casing of the door.
"My mistake!" he cried, and the next moment had armed himself with
another chair. They entered the dining room, found it empty, and closed
and fastened the door. They rifled the sideboard of apples, soda
biscuits, bread, butter, and a half bottle of sherry. Timothy Fletcher
wet his insides with a dozen great gulps of the wine, direct from the
bottle, and then crammed fragments of dry bread into his mouth.
"Go easy," cautioned Banks, between mouthfuls. "Dangerous. Chew your
food."
At last he got possession of the bottle. The wonder is that the meal did
not kill them. As it was, Timothy Fletcher lay down on the carpet, and
swore that he would not move another step until he was dashed well
ready, and felt a good deal better. Mr. Banks became indignant.
"I save your life, and then you go and eat yourself to death!" he cried.
"It's enough to make any one angry. If you don't get up and come along
out of this cursed house, I'll go without you."
Timothy rolled and twisted on the carpet.
"Don't," he whined, changing his tune. "I feel terrible bad, Mr. Banks.
Don't leave me. He may come home soon. What time is it?"
Banks had forgotten that such a thing as time existed. He heard a clock
ticking, tracked it to the chimneypiece, and carried it to the window.
The moonlight was strong enough to read the hands by.
"Half-past nine," he said. "Half-past nine at night, of course--but of
what night? Can it be only twenty-four hours since I crawled into this
infernal house through a back window? I can't believe it! I've been
sandbagged, and shot, and starved! Twenty-four hours!"
"I got an awful cramp," groaned Fletcher. "Get me some whisky! Quick!
Cupboard in the corner."
"I told you not to make a pig of yourself," said Banks. But he found the
cupboard, brought the whisky, and held the decanter to the old man's
lips. He soon withdrew it, in spite of the other's expostulations.
"Half-past nine," he said. "Do you get that? When does Wigmore usually
come home?"
"When do he come home?" repeated Timothy. "Blast him! Just when you
don't expect him! That's when he comes home. After nine, you say? Then
he must be out for the evening. We'd better go--soon. Let's have another
drop of that whisky first."
"No more whisky for you. How are the cramps?"
"Bad! Bad! The soda crackers lay on my insides like bits of flint. I was
near gone, Mr. Banks. He left me days and days without bite nor sup--may
hell's flames scorch him!"
"But we must get away! He may be back at any moment. Once outside the
house, we're safe."
"He has that pistol in his pocket. We'd soon be back again, if he met
us."
"Rot!" exclaimed Banks. "Come along! Buck up!"
"Can't do it, sir. Not just now--anyhow. I feel that bad--I'd like to
die."
The New Yorker relented, knelt beside him, and let him drink a little
more of the whisky.
"Now, lie quiet until you feel better," he said. "I'll keep a watch out
for Wigmore--and if I see him coming, I'll meet him at the door--with a
chair. But you let me know as soon as you feel fit to move."
He took his stand at a window beside the front door. The night was
almost as bright as day, and he could see clearly for hundreds of yards
up the white road. So he stood for fifteen minutes, and nobody came in
sight.
"Never before in all my life did I put in such a day as this," he
reflected.
Then he heard Timothy's husky voice.
"I feel a mite better now. Maybe we'd best get out, Mr. Banks."