MARJORIE CROSSES THE MARSH
Marjorie had retired for the night at eleven o’clock. She had given
up an attempt to bar the door against intruders, for her efforts to
barricade herself in had been resented by the woman, and, moreover,
they had been so ineffectual as to render the attempt a waste of time
and energy.
The house boasted one story--the ground and the first floor; her room
was on the upper floor at the back of the house. It had been chosen
partly for the reason that it was undoubtedly the most habitable of the
apartments which the ramshackle dwelling boasted, and partly because
from this position she could see little or nothing of the movements of
those members of the Red Hand who were engaged in the nefarious work of
preparing the culture.
The night was an unusually clear one, and when, after half an hour of
sleeplessness, she rose to escape from the tumult of thought which
assailed her, her steps turned instinctively to the one outlet
upon the world which the room afforded. She leaned her arms on the
old-fashioned window-sill and looked wistfully out to the twinkling
points of light upon the river.
No sound broke the stillness of the night. The house was wrapped in
silence. Now and then there came to her the faint echo of a siren
farther down the river. She stood for some time, and then, with a
shiver, realized that the night was by no means warm.
Festini and his servants had provided her with a long black cloak. She
took it down from its peg on the wall and wrapped it about her. Her
fingers were still busy with the fastening at her throat when a little
sharp, metallic tap at the window made her turn with a start.
Her heart beat quickly as she stood motionless, watching. She waited
nearly a minute before it came again. It was as though somebody were
at the window.... There could be nobody there, she told herself. She
walked softly to the window and opened it. The bars had been so placed
that they came almost flush with the brickwork. It was impossible for
her to see who stood directly below.
She waited a little while longer and heard a hiss. She stood back. She
did not know why, but it seemed that the unknown was warning her. Then
something fell on the floor at her feet.
She stooped and ran her hand lightly along the uncarpeted boards.
Presently she found what she sought. It was a little pebble, but she
was led to it by catching her fingers in a thin piece of twine, and by
and by she had drawn up to the window a piece of thicker string.
She understood its meaning now. Rapidly she drew it in. There was a
heavier weight at the end of it, and presently she came upon a stout,
closely woven hemp rope. This was the end of the series. Somebody on
the ground without held the rope with gentle firmness.
Her hands trembling with excitement, she knotted the end about one of
the bars of the window, and felt the man outside test the strength of
it. Again and again he pulled as she watched anxiously the amateur
knots she had tied.
To her delight they showed no signs of slipping.
The rope went taut again. There was a steady strain on it. She heard no
sound, and it was with a startling suddenness that the bare head of a
man appeared above the window-sill; he reached up and clasped a bar and
came to rest sitting lightly on the ledge without.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. He went to work methodically. The
bars had been screwed onto a square of wood fitted into the window
space, stapled and morticed into the brickwork itself.
She could not see his face, and he spoke too low for her ordinarily to
recognize his voice; but this was Tillizini, and she knew it. He lost
no time. A little electric lamp showed him the method by which the bars
were fastened. They had been screwed on from the outside, sufficient
security for the girl within, though offering no serious obstacle to a
man armed with a screwdriver without.
Tillizini worked at fever heat. Clinging on to one bar, with one of
his thin legs thrust through into the room, he had two bars out in ten
minutes.
As he removed them he handed them to the girl, and she placed them
quietly upon the bed.
He stepped lightly into the room, re-tied the rope to one of the
remaining bars, fastened one end about her waist, and assisted her
through the window.
“Stay at the bottom until I come,” he said.
She had not long to wait; whilst her fingers were still unfastening the
knot around her waist Tillizini was coming down the rope hand over
hand.
“Wait!” he whispered. He disappeared into the darkness in the direction
of the shed. Piled up alongside was basket after basket of a pattern.
He walked swiftly along, unfastening the trap-fronts as he did so. Soon
it would be light, and at the first sign of dawn the pigeons would
begin their homeward flight. He returned to the girl.
“Move very slowly,” he whispered, “and follow me.”
They crouched down, and almost at a crawl crossed the big yard, the
limits of which were still defined. They gained the marsh which lay
between them and the river.
Still Tillizini showed no signs of abandoning his caution, and the
girl, cramped and aching from her unaccustomed exertions, wondered why
he still moved almost on hands and knees when the danger seemed to be
past.
The ground underfoot was swampy: with every step she went ankle-deep
into liquid mud; she was breathing with difficulty, and her back ached
with an intolerable, nagging pain. She felt she could go no farther;
it seemed to her that she had been moving for hours across miles of
country, although, in fact, she had not gone two hundred yards from
the house, when Tillizini stopped, and motioned her forward.
“Stay here,” he whispered.
Although the marsh was apparently a dead level, there were little
hummocks and rises at irregular intervals, and toward one of the former
he moved stealthily.
She thought she saw the black figure of a man sitting on the one dry
space in the marsh, but fancy plays strange tricks on a dark and
starless night, and her heart had beaten wildly a dozen times during
that agonizing crawl at imaginary figures contesting her way of escape.
The man on the hummock was no figment of imagination, however; he sat
cross-legged like a tailor, a big sheepskin rug about his shoulders, a
long-barrelled revolver on his knee.
The duty of outpost in this direction had fallen to Gregorio, the
sour-faced man who had aroused Festini’s anger earlier during the day.
The Red Hand had established a system of sentries to preclude any
surprises, and from where he sat Gregorio could keep a clear lookout
upon the river approaches to the house.
He sat wide awake and alert, his fingers touching the trigger of
his revolver. All this Tillizini guessed rather than saw. He knew
that any act of violence, unless it was unexpected and deadly, would
produce an alarm. The bold way was the only means possible. He rose
and straightened himself, and went squelching forward across the oozy
ground.
Gregorio heard him and sprang to his feet.
“Who’s there?” he asked softly.
“It is I, brother,” said Tillizini in Italian.
He yawned.
“Is anything wrong?” asked Gregorio, peering forward in the darkness to
distinguish the newcomer.
Tillizini’s answer was to yawn again loudly and prodigiously, as one
who had been recently wakened from his proper sleep and had reluctantly
obeyed the summons.
His yawn extended for the half a dozen paces that separated him from
the sentry.
Gregorio had no suspicion. His finger mechanically went from the
trigger to the butt of the revolver, which now hung loosely at his side.
“What d----?” he began again.
Then like a bolt from a crossbow Tillizini launched himself at the
man’s throat. His left hand gripped the revolver and wrenched it from
the man’s hand. In that motion he had him by the throat, and the two
men were rolling on the ground.
The sentry’s yell for help was strangled in his throat.
Marjorie, a dozen yards away, kneeling in the cold marsh with clasped
hands and parted lips, heard the sound of the struggle, and heard, too,
a stifled cry, and then a silence.
A few seconds later Tillizini came back to her.
“You may get up,” he said softly, “there is no need for any further
concealment.”
He gave her his arm and assisted the half-fainting girl the remainder
of the journey.
At the water’s edge he found the little Canadian canoe that had carried
him across the river, and helped her into it. He followed, and seizing
his paddle, with two strokes he sent the little craft swiftly into the
stream.