NEAR DEATH.
In truth the executioner was coming. Already he had stepped upon the
first stair, and now there was no escape.
Mademoiselle Mystere caught up the lamp and blew out the light in a
twinkling. It was done so swiftly that the man on the stair did not
discover there had been a light in the cellar.
“Keep still! Trust me!”
The words were panted into Frank Merriwell’s ear, and then the
mysterious unknown glided away into the darkness.
Down the stairs came the executioner. In his hand he bore a lamp, and
the light showed his evil face, with the thin, cruel lips that so often
curled back over the wolfish teeth.
It was Emile Durant.
It had fallen upon him to do the bloody work of putting the spy out of
the way, and he was coming to do the deed.
The light flickered over the dark face of the anarchist, making it look
more evil than before. One look at him would have told any one that he
was bent on some dreadful piece of business. There was a frightful
expression in his beady eyes, and his dry lips had parted a bit, so his
yellow teeth showed beneath the narrow little black mustache.
The anarchist reached the foot of the stairs and turned toward the boy.
He came forward with a steady step, which showed he did not shrink from
his task, horrible though it was.
Frank glanced about for Mademoiselle Mystere. She seemed to have
vanished completely, but there were dark nooks in the cellar where she
might be lurking.
The lamplight caused Durant’s small figure to throw a huge shadow along
the ground, up the wall, and against the ceiling overhead. The shadow
kept close at his heels, like a crouching giant. It seemed likely to
fall upon him and crush him. It hovered like a black and evil thing.
Durant saw the boy, and he was soon crouching at Frank’s side. He was
astonished to see the gag was no longer in Merriwell’s mouth.
“How did you get it out?” he asked, wonderingly. “I thought it was put
there to stay until removed.”
“Oh, it was put in hastily,” said the boy. “It came out easily enough.”
Durant scowled. He did not like this immediate reply, and he was
astonished to find the captive did not beg or cry out in terror.
“Well, it makes no difference,” he growled. “If you were to yell your
head off, no one would hear you outside this cellar.”
“That being the case, I am not going to attempt to yell my head off,
thank you. It would be a clean waste of breath.”
The little anarchist uttered a curse.
“Fool!” he grated. “You do not seem to realize that you are doomed to
die. I am here to kill you!”
“Well, I presume you will do it in a decent sort of way. I am not
hankering to be tortured to death.”
Durant drew back. What manner of human being was this who could face
death thus calmly?
For some moments the man was silent. He believed the boy had not yet
come to realize that everything was in earnest, and was not a practical
joke.
And Frank was wondering if Mademoiselle Mystere could save him—if she
would.
“She must be given time,” thought the boy. “I must take up Durant’s
attention. He must not hear or see her.”
So Frank said:
“As long as I am to be killed, and there is no escaping such a fate,
would you mind telling me just what this is about? Why have you taken so
much pains to put me out of the way?”
“You are a spy, sent here by a prying newspaper, and you are dangerous
to our brotherhood. If you are not put out of the way, you may learn
some of our secrets and reveal them to the world. All this you know very
well.”
“My dear sir, you have made one of the biggest mistakes of your life. I
am exactly what I have represented myself to be—a youth who is traveling
for pleasure. If you give me a little time, I could prove all that I
claim. I could prove that I am not connected with a newspaper, and never
have been.”
“Bah! What about your card, which we found in one of your pockets?”
“That card was given me by a young man whom I met here in this city. It
was the only one I had. If you had looked in my coat, which was torn
from my back, it is pretty certain you would have found my cardcase, in
which were my cards with my right name upon them.”
“A trick! It would not go. It is useless to talk.”
“But I happen to feel very much like talking just now, as it may be the
last opportunity I will have in this world. If you would not interrupt
me, I’d talk all night—really I would. Now, you know it is not polite to
interrupt a gentleman who is speaking, and you Frenchmen are the
embodiment of politeness, so I trust you will make no breach of decorum
in my case. If I see that you are about to lay violent hands upon me, I
shall begin to talk, and I shall keep right on as long as you will
permit.”
Durant showed his teeth in a grin that was anything but pleasant.
“Very good,” he sneered. “Very funny. But this will stop your joking. It
will sober you down very much.”
He produced his knife, a most wicked-looking instrument.
“I should say it might,” agreed Frank. “I am sorry I have offended you
in any way, Monsieur Durant. Indeed, I think I am going to be very much
cut up about it.”
Durant stared. He caught the pun, and he wondered if the boy had
actually meant it for a joke. Frank winked in a most mischievous manner,
and the man swore.
“It is too bad to cut the throat of a fellow with so much sand,” he
declared. “Are all American boys like you?”
“Nearly all of them. It’s a way we have over the pond. It’s all in
getting used to it, you know.”
“You would make a good anarchist.”
“Think so?”
“It is certain. You would not be afraid of anything. If you were chosen
to assassinate the president, you would do it, even if you knew it meant
certain death for you. If we were to let you live, would you become one
of us?”
“What’s that? Become an anarchist?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have never considered the matter.”
“I will give you ten seconds to consider it.”
“And then?”
“If you agree to become one of us, I will lay the matter before the
brotherhood. If you do not——”
Durant ended with a suggestive gesture with the knife in his hand.
“Ten seconds is a short time.”
“Think—not talk!”
Durant bent over the helpless lad, clutching his shoulder with his free
hand. The wicked knife was held in a position for a sweep across the
boy’s throat.
Where was Mademoiselle Mystere?
Then a nerve-breaking thought came to Frank. Perhaps the woman had been
sent there by the villains to excite his hopes—to torture him thus, and
then to desert him to his fate. Perhaps Durant was working on the same
scheme. If Frank said he would join the anarchists, it was possible the
little wretch would laugh in his face, and then cut his throat.
“Your answer,” demanded Durant—“is it yes or no?”
“No!”
“Then die!”
“Not yet!”
Crack—a stone descended on the head of Emile Durant, and the little
ruffian dropped in a senseless heap, struck down by the woman of the
mask.
She flung aside the stone, which she had found in the cellar, and with
which she had crept cat-like behind Durant.
“Now,” she panted, dropping beside Frank Merriwell, “I have become a
traitor to save you—all because I like your boldness. What a fool I am.”
She cut his bonds, and set him free.
Those cords had cut into the boy’s flesh so that circulation of the
blood had been arrested, and he found himself benumbed, although free.
Mademoiselle Mystere had dragged the unconscious Durant from the lad,
across whose legs the anarchist had fallen. The little wretch lay upon
the ground, and the light from the lamp shone athwart his evil face. The
jaw had fallen, and the thin lips still exposed those wolfish teeth. The
little mustache, coal-black in color, curled down around the corners of
his cruel mouth. His eyes were closed, but there was a sneer on his
face. Across one temple was a streak of blood.
After a little, Frank sat up and looked down at that face. Truly it was
the face of one who would delight in riot and ruin, who would revel in
burning and bloodshed, who would tear out his very life to overthrow the
existing order of things.
Merriwell felt that it was little short of a marvel that Durant, who had
come there to slay a helpless spy, now lay senseless on the ground,
while the supposed spy was free from the cords that had held him like
bands of iron.
“By Jove!” muttered the boy; “that is an ugly mug. I wonder if he really
meant to give me a chance as one of the brotherhood?”
“Surely he did,” declared the masked unknown. “He admired your nerve,
and he believed you would make a good anarchist—one who could be
depended on to execute the orders of those high in power and authority.
I did hope that you might consent to join the band, for that would have
kept me from turning traitor—from lifting my hand against one of the
brotherhood. But when you refused, then I knew I must strike quickly, or
it would be all over with you.”
“Well, I am greatly obliged. You did the job nicely, and I congratulate
you. You struck him hard enough to crack his skull.”
“Ah! what a miserable creature I am!” she cried, passionately. “What
will not a woman do if she is in love!”
“Cæsar’s ghost!” thought Frank. “I am in a pretty box! When she finds I
am not in love with her, she will hate me again, and then I will stand a
good chance of getting her dagger right where I live. That’s pleasant to
contemplate!”
But he was no longer bound, and he could make one more struggle for
life. There was no little satisfaction in that thought. Almost anything
was preferable to his position of a short time before.
He felt one of Mademoiselle Mystere’s arms slip around his neck, and she
was breathing swiftly, hotly at his ear:
“You must take me to America—anywhere that is far from Paris and the
brotherhood! I have done all this for you! I have made myself false to
my oath, and I shall be despised ever after by my own brother and his
comrades. Think of that, my hero! Think what a poor fool of a girl has
done for you!”
The situation was far from pleasant for Frank Merriwell, who could but
compare this strange woman with a tigress.
He thought of dark-eyed Inza, whom he had known at Fardale, and who had
been the “Queen of Flowers” at Mardi Gras in New Orleans. He thought of
Elsie Bellwood, with blue eyes and golden hair—Elsie whom he had saved
from many dangers, and who loved him tenderly, truly.
A strong desire to repulse this unknown girl came over him—a desire to
thrust her away.
And it might cost him his life.
He reached up and took her hand, soft and warm, to gently remove her arm
from about his neck. She clung closer, whispering:
“Promise—promise me! You must give me your word!”
“How can I tell you that? I have not even seen your face.”
“It is true; I had forgotten. You shall see it now.”
She snatched away the mask, pushed him back, held him by the shoulders
with both hands, and turned her face so the lamplight shone full upon
it.
“Look!” she panted. “Did I lie when I told you I was handsome? Are you
satisfied now?”
The mask had fallen, and he saw that she was handsome in a wild, fierce
way, with eyes black as the depths of eternal night, lips red and full,
curving like a Cupid’s bow, and the flush of excitement and passion in
her cheeks.
Frank did not speak. Truly there was a fascination in her eyes, a sort
of hypnotic power, that held him spellbound.
There was a stir and a faint groan beside them, and the boy flung her
off in a twinkling, turning all his attention to Durant, who showed
signs of reviving.
He was not swifter than Mademoiselle Mystere herself, who was on the man
in a moment, her hands at his throat, her knee pressed into his stomach.
“Quick—the cords!” she fluttered. “Bind his hands and feet—bind him
securely! Make every knot tell, and do not lose a second.”
Frank caught up the rope, and obeyed her directions with alacrity. If
Durant was able to raise an alarm when he revived, there was little
chance for them to escape. He would bring the other anarchists down on
them with a rush.
“His feet,” panted the girl. “Now you have them. Make it solid—so. Over
with him on his face. Draw it tight. He must not be able to wiggle so
much as a finger. Around here—and here again. Give me that end—now
pull.”
And thus they worked together.
“The gag,” called Mademoiselle Mystere. “He is coming around! Quick with
the gag, before he can raise an alarm!”
The gag was found and thrust into Durant’s mouth, his jaws having been
pried apart.
Barely had they succeeded in their work when the man’s eyes opened, and
he stared at them. In a moment it was evident that he knew fortune had
turned against him, for he saw Frank bending over him. Deadly and
undying hatred shot from his eyes, and he tried to start up, but fell
back, a groan coming hollowly, chokingly from behind the gag.
The girl had turned away swiftly, that Durant might not see her face,
and her features were hidden by the mask when she looked back. In
Frank’s ear she whispered:
“He has never seen me unmasked.”
There was astonishment and accusation in Durant’s eyes. He looked at her
questioningly, and, for a moment, she seemed to turn away in shame. Then
she turned back boldly, saying, as if answering the man’s question:
“Yes, it is I. I struck you, Emile Durant. I did so to save this lad.”
She spoke wildly, yet with the utmost confidence, as if it was quite
settled between herself and Frank.
Durant squirmed and scowled. It was plain that he longed to speak, and
he looked bitter curses from his eyes.
“We are wasting time here,” said Frank. “We must be getting away before
others of the band come.”
“You are right,” admitted Mademoiselle Mystere. “We will go. Farewell,
Emile. Tell the brotherhood that their secrets are safe with me. Tell
them the spy shall never bother them more. In saving one I love I am a
traitor, but that is all. My heart is still true to the cause, and I
shall pray for its success. Farewell.”
The helpless Frenchman squirmed again, his face furious. He frothed at
the mouth, and hoarse gurglings came from his throat. The cords stood
out on his neck and temples, and he started up, falling back with a
despairing moan.
“It is useless,” declared the masked girl. “Every knot is solid, and you
cannot break the cord. You may as well keep still and make the best of
it.”
She took up the lamp, and led the way.
Frank had no weapon, and so he picked up the stone with which the
strange girl had struck Durant senseless.
“One more effort for life,” he thought. “Shall we succeed in getting out
of the snare? We must!”
He followed the masked mystery.
They ascended the stairs and reached the door, which opened to her
touch. In the doorway she paused to listen. A distant murmur of voices
came to their ears. Mademoiselle Mystere made a sharp gesture of anger
and dismay.
“They are waiting for Emile,” she whispered; “and they are between us
and the door. We cannot get out without passing them.”
“And the door——”
“Is locked, bolted and chained. It cannot be opened quickly.”
“Have you a pistol?”
“No.”
“Your only weapon is your knife?”
“Yes.”
“That is not enough; but we must do our best. Come on.”
He would have taken the lead, but she held him back.
“I know every step of the way, and you must trust in me. Keep hold of
me, and I will lead you through the dark, for the lamp must be
extinguished.”
She put out the light, and then her hand fluttered to his in the
darkness. It grasped his fingers and gave them a sharp pressure. He
heard her softly close the door that opened into the cellar.
“Come on,” she said, in turn. “We must find a way to the street, if it
leads through blood!”
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