Four P. M.
The old clock in a corner of the study chimed resonantly and with
deliberation: four double strokes; and while yet the deep-throated
music was dying into silence the telephone bell shrieked impertinently.
Maitland bit savagely on the gag and knotted his brows, trying to bear
it. The effect was that of a coarse file rasped across raw quivering
nerves. And he lay helpless, able to do no more toward endurance than
to dig nails deep into his palms.
Again and again the fiendish clamor shattered the echoes. Blinding
flashes of agony danced down the white-hot wires strung through his
head, taut from temple to temple.
Would the fool at the other end never be satisfied that he could get no
answer? Evidently not: the racket continued mercilessly, short series
of shrill calls alternating with imperative rolls prolonged until one
thought that the tortured metal sounding-cups would crack. Thought!
nay, prayed that either such would be the case, or else that one's head
might at once mercifully be rent asunder....
That anguish so exquisite should be the means of releasing him from his
bonds seemed a refinement of irony. Yet Maitland was aware, between
spasms, that help was on the way. The telephone instrument, for obvious
convenience, had been equipped with an extension bell which rang
simultaneously in O'Hagan's quarters. When Maitland was not at home the
janitor-valet, so warned, would answer the calls. And now, in the still
intervals, the heavy thud of unhurried feet could be heard upon the
staircase. O'Hagan was coming to answer; and taking his time about it.
It seemed an age before the rattle of pass-key in latch announced him;
and another ere, all unconscious of the figure supine on the divan
against the further study wall, the old man shuffled to the instrument,
lifted receiver from the hook, and applied it to his ear.
"Well, well?" he demanded with that impatience characteristic of the
illiterate for modern methods of communication. "Pwhat the divvle ails
ye?"
"Rayspicts to ye, ma'am, and 'tis sorry I am I didn't know 'twas a
leddy."
"He's _not_."
"Wan o'clock, there or thereabouts."
"Faith and he didn't say."
"Pwhat name will I be tellin' him?"
"Kape ut to yersilf, thin. 'Tis none of me business."
"If ye do, I'll not answer. Sure, am I to be climbin' two flights av
sthairs iv'ry foive minits----"
"Good-by yersilf," hanging up the receiver. "And the divvle fly away
wid ye," grumbled O'Hagan.
As he turned away from the instrument Maitland managed to produce a
sound, something between a moan and a strangled cough. The old man
whirled on his heel. "Pwhat's thot?"
The next instant he was bending over Maitland, peering into the face
drawn and disfigured by the gag. "The saints presarve us! And who the
divvle are ye at all? Pwhy don't ye spake?"
Maitland turned purple; and emitted a furious snort.
"Misther Maitland, be all thot's strange!... Is ut mad I am? Or how did
ye get back here and into this fix, sor, and me swapin' the halls and
polishin' the brasses fernist the front dure iv'ry minute since ye wint
out?"
Indignation struggling for the upper hand with mystification in the
Irishman's brain, he grumbled and swore; yet busied his fingers. In a
trice the binding gag was loosed, and ropes and straps cast free from
swollen wrists and ankles. And, with the assistance of a kindly arm
behind his shoulders, Maitland sat up, grinning with the pain of
renewing circulation in his limbs.
"Wid these two oies mesilf saw ye lave three hours gone, sor, and I
c'u'd swear no sowl had intered this house since thin. Pwhat does ut
all mane, be all thot's holy?"
"It means," panting, "brandy and soda, O'Hagan, and be quick."
Maitland attempted to rise, but his legs gave under him, and he sank
back with a stifled oath, resigning himself to wait the return of
normal conditions. As for his head, it was threatening to split at any
moment, the tight wires twanging infernally between his temples; while
the corners of his mouth were cracked and sore from the pressure of the
gag. All of which totted up a considerable debit against Mr. Anisty's
account.
For Maitland, despite his suffering, had found time to figure it out to
his personal satisfaction--or dissatisfaction, if you prefer--in the
interval between his return to consciousness and the arrival of
O'Hagan. It was simple enough to deduce from the knowledge in his
possession that the burglar, having contrived his escape through the
disobedience of Higgins, should have engineered this complete revenge
for the indignity Maitland had put upon him.
How he had divined the fact of the jewels remaining in their owner's
possession was less clear; and yet it was reasonable, after all, to
presume that Maitland should prefer to hold his own. Possibly Anisty
had seen the girl slip the canvas bag into Maitland's pocket while the
latter was kneeling and binding his captive. However that was, there
was no denying that he had trailed the treasure to its hiding-place,
unerringly; and succeeded in taking possession of it with consummate
skill and audacity. When Maitland came to think of it, he recalled
distinctly the trend of the burglar's inquisition in the character of
"Mr. Snaith," which had all been calculated to discover the location of
the jewels. And, when he did recall this fact, and how easily he had
been duped, Maitland could have ground his teeth in melodramatic
rage--but for the circumstance that when first it occurred to him, such
a feat was a physical impossibility, and even when ungagged the
operation would have been painful to an extreme.
Sipping the grateful drink which O'Hagan presently brought him, the
young man pondered the case; with no pleasure in the prospect he
foresaw. If Higgins had actually communicated the fact of Anisty's
escape to the police, the entire affair was like to come out in the
papers,--all of it, that is, that he could not suppress. But even
figuring that he could silence Higgins and O'Hagan,--no difficult task:
though he might be somewhat late with Higgins,--the most discreet
imaginable explanation of his extraordinary conduct would make him the
laughing stock of his circle of friends, to say nothing of a city that
had been accustomed to speak of him as "Mad Maitland," for many a day.
Unless....
Ah, he had it! He could pretend (so long as it suited his purpose, at
all events), to have been the man caught and left bound in Higgins'
care. Simple enough: the knocking over of the butler would be ascribed
to a natural ebullition of indignation, the subsequent flight to a
hare-brained notion of running down the thief. And yet even that
explanation had its difficulties. How was he to account for the fact
that he had failed to communicate with the police--knowing that his
treasure had been ravished?
It was all very involved. Mr. Maitland returned the glass to O'Hagan
and, cradling his head in his hands, racked his brains in vain for a
satisfactory tale to tell. There were so many things to be taken into
consideration. There was the girl in grey....
Not that he had forgotten her for an instant; his fury raged but the
higher at the thought that Anisty's interference had prevented his
(Maitland's) keeping the engagement. Doubtless the girl had waited,
then gone away in anger, believing that the man in whom she had placed
faith had proved himself unworthy. And so he had lost her for ever, in
all likelihood: they would never meet again.
But that telephone call?
"O'Hagan," demanded the haggard and distraught young man, "who was that
on the wire just now?"
Being a thoroughly trained servant, O'Hagan had waited that question in
silence, a-quiver with impatience though he was. Now, his tongue
unleashed, his words fairly stumbled on one another's heels in his
anxiety to get them out in the least possible time. "Sure, an' 'twas a
leddy, sor, be the v'ice av her, askin' were ye in, and mesilf havin'
seen ye go out no longer ago thin wan o'clock and yersilf sayin' not a
worrud about comin' back at all at all, pwhat was I to be tellin' her,
aven if ye were lyin' there on the dievan all unbeknownest to me, which
the same mesilf can not----"
"Help!" pleaded the young man feebly, smiling. "One thing at a time,
please, O'Hagan. Answer me one question: Did she give a name?"
"She did not, sor, though mesilf----"
"There, there! Wait a bit. I want to think."
Of course she had given no name; it wouldn't be like her.... What was
he thinking of, anyway? It could not have been the grey girl; for she
knew him only as Anisty; she could never have thought him himself,
Maitland.... But what other woman of his acquaintance did not believe
him to be out of town?
With a hopeless gesture, Maitland gave it up, conceding the mystery too
deep for him, his intellect too feeble to grapple with all its infinite
ramifications. The counsel he had given O'Hagan seemed most appropriate
to his present needs: One thing at a time. And obviously the first
thing that lay to his hand was the silencing of O'Hagan.
Maitland rallied his wits to the task. "O'Hagan," said he, "this man,
Snaith, who was here this afternoon, called himself a detective. As
soon as we were alone he rapped me over the head with a loaded cane,
and, I suspect, went through the flat stealing everything he could lay
hands on.... Hand me my cigarette case, please."
"'Tis gone, sor--'tis not on the desk, at laste, pwhere I saw ut last."
"Ah! You see?... Now for reasons of my own, which I won't enter into, I
don't want the affair to get out and become public. You understand? I
want you to keep your mouth shut, until I give you permission to open
it."
"Very good, sor." The janitor-valet had previous experiences with
Maitland's generosity in grateful memory; and shut his lips tightly in
promise of virtuous reticence.
"You won't regret it.... Now tell me what you mean by saying that you
saw me go out at one this afternoon?"
Again the flood gates were lifted; from the deluge of explanations and
protestations Maitland extracted the general drift of narrative. And in
the end held up his hand for silence.
"I think I understand, now. You say he had changed to my grey suit?"
O'Hagan darted into the bedroom, whence he emerged with confirmation of
his statement.
"'Tis gone, sor, an'--."
"All right. But," with a rueful smile, "I'll take the liberty of
countermanding Mr. Snaith's order. If he should call again, O'Hagan, I
very much want to see him."
"Faith, and 'tis mesilf will have a worrud or two to whispher in the
ear av him, sor," announced O'Hagan grimly.
"I'm afraid the opportunity will be lacking: ... You may fix me a hot
bath now, O'Hagan, and put out my evening clothes. I'll dine at the
club to-night and may not be back."
And, rising, Maitland approached a mirror; before which he lingered for
several minutes, cataloguing his injuries. Taken altogether, they
amounted to little. The swelling of his wrists and ankles was subsiding
gradually; there was a slight redness visible in the corners of his
mouth, and a shadow of discoloration on his right temple--something
that could be concealed by brushing his hair in a new way.
"I think I shall do," concluded Maitland; "there's nothing to excite
particular comment. The bulk of the soreness is inside."
* * * * *
Seven P. M.
"Time," said the short and thick-set man casually, addressing no one in
particular.
He shut the lid of his watch with a snap and returned the timepiece to
his waistcoat pocket. Simultaneously he surveyed both sides of the
short block between Seventh and St. Nicholas Avenues with one
comprehensive glance.
Presumably he saw nothing of interest to him. It was not a particularly
interesting block, for that matter: though somewhat typical of the
neighborhood. The north side was lined with five-story flat buildings,
their dingy-red brick façades regularly broken by equally dingy
brownstone stoops, as to the ground floor, by open windows as to those
above. The south side was mostly taken up by a towering white apartment
hotel with an ostentatious entrance; against one of whose polished
stone pillars the short and thick-set man was lounging.
The sidewalks, north and south, swarmed with children of assorted ages,
playing with that ferocious energy characteristic of the young of
Harlem; their blood-curdling cries and premature Fourth-of-July
fireworks created an appalling din: to which, however, the more mature
denizens had apparently become callous, through long endurance.
Beyond the party-colored lights of a drug-store window on Seventh
Avenue, the electric arcs were casting a sickly radiance upon the dusty
leaves of the tree-lined drive. The avenue itself was crowded with
motor-cars and horse-drawn pleasure vehicles, mostly bound up-town,
their occupants seeking the cooler airs and wider spaces to be found
beyond the Harlem River and along the Speedway. A few blocks to the
west Cathedral Heights bulked like a great wall, wrapped in purple
shadows, its jagged contour stark against an evening sky of suave old
rose.
The short and thick-set body, however, seemed to have no particular
appreciation of the beauties of nature as exhibited by West One-hundred
and Eighteenth Street on a summer's evening. If anything, he could
apparently have desired a cooling breeze; for, after a moment's
doubtful consideration, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and heaved a sigh
of relief.
Then, carefully shifting the butt of a dead cigar from one corner of
his mouth to the other, where it was almost hidden by the jutting
thatch of his black mustache, and drawing down over his eyes the brim
of a rusty plug hat, he thrust fat hands into the pockets of his shabby
trousers and lounged against the polished pillar even more
energetically than before: if that were possible. An unromantic,
apathetic figure, fitting so naturally into his surroundings as to
demand no second look even from the most observant; yet one seeming to
possess a magnetic attraction for the eyes of the hall-boy of the
apartment hotel (who, acquainted by sight and hearsay with the stout
gentleman's identity and calling, bent upon him a steadfast and adoring
regard), as well as for the policeman who lorded it on the St. Nicholas
Avenue corner, in front of the real-estate office, and who from time to
time shifted his contemplation from the infinite spaces of the heavens,
the better to exchange a furtive nod with the idler in the hotel
doorway.
Presently,--at no great lapse of time after the short and thick-set man
had stowed away his watch,--out of the thronged sidewalks of Seventh
Avenue a man appeared, walking west on the north side of the street and
reviewing carelessly the numbers on the illuminated fanlights: a tall
man, dressed all in grey, and swinging a thin walking stick.
The short, thick-set person assumed a mien of more intense abstraction
than ever.
The tall man in grey paused indefinitely before the brownstone stoop of
the house numbered 205, then swung up the steps and into the vestibule.
Here he halted, bending over to scrutinize the names on the
letter-boxes.
The short, thick-set man reluctantly detached himself from his polished
pillar and waddled ungracefully across the street.
The policeman on the corner seemed suddenly interested in Seventh
Avenue; and walked in that direction.
The grey man, having vainly deciphered all the names on one side of the
vestibule, straightened up and turned his attention to the opposite
wall, either unconscious of or indifferent to the shuffle of feet on
the stoop behind him.
The short, thick-set man removed one hand from a pocket and tapped the
grey man gently on the shoulder.
"Lookin' for McCabe, Anisty?" he inquired genially.
The grey man turned slowly, exhibiting a countenance blank with
astonishment. "Beg pardon?" he drawled; and then, with a dawning gleam
of recognition in his eyes: "Why, good evening, Hickey! What brings you
up this way?"
The short, thick-set man permitted his jaw to droop and his eyes to
protrude for some seconds. "Oh," he said in a tone of great disgust,
"hell!" He pulled himself together with an effort. "Excuse _me_, Mr.
Maitland," he stammered, "I wasn't lookin' for yeh."
"To the contrary, I gather from your greeting that you were expecting
our friend, Mr. Anisty?" And the grey man smiled.
Hickey smiled in sympathy, but with less evident relish of the
situation's humor.
"That's right," he admitted. "Got a tip from the C'miss'ner's office
this evening that Anisty would be here at seven o'clock lookin' for a
party named McCabe. I guess it's a bum tip, all right; but of course I
got to look into it."
"Most assuredly." The grey man bent and inspected the names again. "I
am hunting up an old friend," he explained carelessly: "a man named
Simmons--knew him in college--down on his luck--wrote me yesterday.
There he is: fourth floor, east. I'll see you when I come down, I hope,
Mr. Hickey."
The automatic lock clicked and the door swung open; the grey man
passing through and up the stairs. Hickey, ostentatiously ignoring the
existence of the policeman, returned to his post of observation.
At eight o'clock he was still there, looking bored.
At eight-thirty he was still there, wearing a puzzled expression.
At nine he called the adoring hall-boy, gave him a quarter with minute
instructions, and saw him disappear into the hallway of Number 205.
Three minutes later the boy was back, breathless but enthusiastic.
"Missis Simmons," he explained between gasps, "says she ain't never
heard of nobody named Maitland. Somebody rang her bell a while ago an'
apologized for disturbin' her--said he wanted the folks on the top
floor. I guess yer man went acrost the roofs: them houses is all
connected, and yuh c'n walk clear from the corner here tuh half-way up
tuh Nineteenth Street, on Sain' Nicholas Avenoo."
"Uh-huh," laconically returned the detective. "Thanks." And turning on
his heel, walked westward.
The policeman crossed the street to detain him for a moment's chat.
"I guess it's all off, Jim," Hickey told him. "Some one must've tipped
that crook off. Anyway, I ain't goin' to wait no longer."
"I wouldn't neither," agreed the uniformed member. "Say, who's yer
friend yeh was talkin' tuh, 'while ago?"
"Oh, a frien' of mine. Yeh didn't have no call to git excited then,
Jim. G'night."
And Hickey proceeded westward, a listless and preoccupied man by the
vacant eye of him. But when he emerged into the glare of Eighth Avenue
his face was unusually red. Which may have been due to the heat. And
just before boarding a down-town surface car, "Oh," he enunciated with
gusto, "_hell_!"
* * * * *
One A. M.
Not until the rich and mellow chime had merged into the stillness did
the intruder dare again to draw breath. Coming as it had the very
moment that the door had closed noiselessly behind her, the double
stroke had sounded to her like a knell: or, perhaps more like the
prelude to the wild alarum of a tocsin, first striking her heart still
with terror, then urging it into panic flutterings.
But these, as the minutes drew on, marked only by the dull methodic
ticking of the clock, quieted; and at length she mustered courage to
move from the door, against which she had flattened herself, one hand
clutching the knob, ready to pull it open and fly upon the first
aggressive sound.
In the interval her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. The
study door showed a pale oblong on her right; to her left, and a little
toward the rear of the flat, the door of Maitland's bed-chamber stood
ajar. To this she tiptoed, standing upon the threshold and listening
with every fiber of her being. No sounds as of the regular respiration
of a sleeper warning her, she at length peered stealthily within;
simultaneously she pressed the button of an electric hand-lamp. Its
circumscribed blaze wavered over pillows and counterpane spotless and
undisturbed.
Then for the first time she breathed freely, convinced that she had
been right in surmising that Maitland would not return that night.
Since early evening she had watched the house from the window of a
top-floor hall bedroom in the boarding-house opposite. Shortly before
seven she had seen Maitland, stiff and uncompromising in rigorous
evening dress, leave in a cab. Since then only once had a light
appeared in his rooms; at about half-after nine the janitor had
appeared in the study, turning up the gas and going to the telephone.
Whatever the nature of the communication received, the girl had taken
it to indicate that Maitland had decided to spend the night elsewhere;
for the study light had burned for some ten minutes, during which the
janitor could occasionally be seen moving mysteriously about; and
something later, bearing a suitcase, he had left the house and shuffled
rapidly eastward to Madison Avenue.
So she felt convinced that she had all the small hours before her,
secure from interruption. And this time, she told herself, she purposed
making assurance doubly sure....
But first to guard against discovery from the street.
Turning back through the hall, she dispensed with the hand-lamp,
entering the darkened study. Here all windows had been closed and the
outer shades drawn--O'Hagan's last act before leaving with the
suit-case: additional proof that Maitland was not expected back that
night. For the temperature was high, the air in the closed room
stifling.
Crossing to the windows, the girl drew down the dark green inner shades
and closed the folding wooden shutters over them. And was conscious of
a deepened sense of security.
Next going to the telephone, she removed the receiver from the hook and
let it hang at the full length of the cord. In the dead silence the
small voice of Central was clearly articulate: "_What number? Hello,
what number_?"--followed by the grumbling of the armature as the
operator tried fruitlessly to ring the disconnected bell. The girl
smiled faintly, aware that there would now be no interruption from an
inopportune call.
There remained as a final precaution only a grand tour of the flat;
which she made expeditiously, passing swiftly and noiselessly (one
contemplating midnight raids does not attire one's self in silks and
starched things) from room to room, all comfortably empty. Satisfied at
last, she found herself again in the study, and now boldly, mind at
rest, lighted the brass student lamp with the green shade, which she
discovered on the desk.
Standing, hands resting lightly on hips, breath coming quickly, cheeks
flushed and eyes alight with some intimate and inscrutable emotion, she
surveyed the room. Out of the dusk that lay beyond the plash of
illumination beneath the lamp, the furniture began to take on familiar
shapes: the divans, the heavy leather-cushioned easy chairs, the tall
clock with its pallid staring face, the small tables and tabourettes,
handily disposed for the reception of books and magazines and pipes and
glasses, the towering, old-fashioned mahogany book-case, the useless,
ornamental, beautiful Chippendale escritoire, in one corner: all
somberly shadowed and all combining to diffuse an impression of quiet,
easy-going comfort.
Just such a study as _he_ would naturally have. She nodded silent
approbation of it as a whole. And, nodding, sat down at the desk,
planting elbows on its polished surface, interlacing her fingers and
cradling her chin upon their backs: turned suddenly pensive.
The mood held her but briefly. She had no time to waste, and much to
accomplish.... Sitting back, her fingers sought and pressed the clasp
of her hand-bag, and produced two articles--a golden cigarette case and
a slightly soiled canvas bag. The Maitland jewels were returning by a
devious way, to their owner.
But where to put them, that he might find them without delay? It must
be no conspicuous place, where O'Hagan would be apt to happen upon
them; doubtless the janitor was trustworthy, but still.... Misplaced
opportunities breed criminals.
It was all a risk, to leave the treasure there, without the protection
of nickeled-steel walls and timelocks; but a risk that must be taken.
She dared not retain it longer in her possession; and she would
contrive a way in the morning to communicate with Maitland and warn him.
Her gaze searched the area where the lamplight fell soft yet strong
upon the dark shining wood and heavy brass desk fittings; and paused,
arrested by the unusual combination of inverted bowl and super-imposed
book. A riddle to be read with facility; in a twinkling she had
uncovered the incriminating hand-print--incriminating if it could be
traced, that is to say.
"Oh!" she cried softly. And laughed a little. "Oh, how careless!"
Fine brows puckered, she pondered the matter, and ended by placing her
own hand over the print; this one fitted the other exactly.
"How he must have wondered! He is sure to look again, especially if...."
No need to conclude the sentence. Quickly she placed bag and case
squarely on top of the impression, the bowl over all, and the book upon
the bowl; then, drawing from her pocket a pair of long grey silk
gloves, draped one across the book; and, head tilted to one side,
admired the effect.
It seemed decidedly an artistic effect, admirably calculated to attract
attention. She was satisfied to the point of being pleased with
herself: a fact indicated by an expressive flutter of slim, fair
hands.... And now, to work! Time pressed, and.... A cloud dimmed the
radiance of her eyes; irresolutely she shifted in her chair, troubled,
frowning, lips woefully drooping. And sighed. And a still small
whisper, broken and wretched, disturbed the quiet of the study.
"I can not! O, I can not!... To spoil it all, _now_, when...."
Yet she must. She must forget herself and steel her determination with
the memory that another's happiness hung in the balance, depended upon
her success. Twice she had tried and failed. This third time she _must_
succeed.
And bowing her head in token of her resignation, she turned back
squarely to face the desk. As she did so the toe of one small shoe
caught against something on the floor, causing a dull jingling sound.
She stooped, with a low exclamation, and straightened up, a small bunch
of keys in her hand: eight or ten of them dangling from a silver ring:
Maitland's keys.
He must have dropped them there, forgetting them altogether. A find of
value and one to save her a deal of trouble: skeleton keys are so
exasperatingly slow, particularly when used by inexpert hands. But how
to bring herself to make use of these? All's fair in war (and this was
a sort of war, a war of wits at least); but one should fight with one's
own arms, not pilfer the enemy's and turn them against him. To use
these keys to ransack Maitland's desk seemed an action even more
blackly dishonorable than this clandestine visit, this midnight foray.
Swinging the notched metal slips from a slender finger, she
contemplated them: and laughed ruefully. What qualms of conscience in a
burglar self-confessed! She was there for a purpose, a recognized,
nefarious purpose. Granted. Then why quibble?... She would not quibble.
She would be firm, resolute, determined, cold-blooded, unmindful of all
kindness and courtesy and.... She would use them, accomplish her
purpose, and have done, finally and for ever, with the whole hateful
business!
There was a bright spot of color on either cheek and a hot light of
anger in her eyes as she set about her task. It would never be less
hideous, never less immediate.
The desk drawers yielded easily to the eager keys. One by one she had
them open and their contents explored--vain repetition of yesterday
afternoon's fruitless task. But she must be sure, she must leave no
stone unturned. Maitland Manor was closed to her for ever, because of
last night. But here she was safe for a few short hours, and free to
make assurance doubly sure.
There remained the despatch-box, the black japanned tin box which had
proved obdurate yesterday. She had come prepared to break its lock this
time, if need be; Maitland's carelessness spared her the necessity.
She lifted it out of a lower drawer, and put it in her lap. The
smallest key fitted the lock at the first attempt. The lid came up
and....
Perhaps it is not altogether discreditable that one should temporarily
forget one's compunctions in the long-deferred moment of triumph. The
girl uttered a little cry of joy.
Crash!--the front door down-stairs had been slammed.
She was on her feet in a breath, faint with fear. Yet not so overcome
that she forgot her errand, her success. As she stood up she dropped
the despatch-box back into the drawer, without a sound, and, opening
her hand-bag, stuffed something into it.
No time to do more: a dull rumble of masculine voices was distinctly,
frightfully audible in the stillness of the house: voices of men
conversing together in the inner vestibule. One laughed, and the laugh
seemed to penetrate her bosom like a knife. Then both strode across the
tiling and began to ascend, as was clearly told her by footsteps
sounding deadened on the padded carpet.
Panic-stricken, she turned to the student lamp and with a quick twirl
and upward jerk of the chimney-catch extinguished the flame. A reek of
smoke immediately began to foul the close, hot air: and she knew that
it would betray her, but was helpless to stop it. Besides, she was
caught, trapped, damned beyond redemption unless ... unless it were not
Maitland, after all, but one of the other tenants, unexpectedly
returned and bound for another flat.
Futile hope. Upon the landing by the door the footsteps ceased; and a
key grated in the wards of the lock.
Blind with terror, her sole thought an instinctive impulse to hide and
so avert discovery until the last possible instant, on the bare chance
of something happening to save her, the girl caught up her skirts and
fled like a hunted shadow through the alcove, through the bed-chamber,
thence down the hall toward the dining-room and kitchen offices.
The outer door was being opened ere she had reached the hiding-place
she had in mind: the trunk-closet, from which, she remembered
remarking, a window opened upon a fire-escape. It was barely possible,
a fighting chance.
She closed the door, grateful that its latch slipped silently into
place, and fairly flung herself upon the window, painfully bruising her
soft hands in vain endeavor to raise the sash. It stuck obstinately,
would not yield. Too late, she remembered that she had forgotten to
draw the catch--fatal oversight! A sob of terror choked in her throat.
Already footsteps were hurrying down the hall; a line of light
brightened underneath the door; voices, excitedly keyed, bandied
question and comment, an unmistakable Irish brogue mingling with a
clear enunciation which she had but too great reason to remember. The
pair had passed into the next room. She could hear O'Hagan announcing:
"No wan here, sor."
"Then it's the dining-room, or the trunk-closet. Come along!"
One last, frantic attempt! But the window catch, rusted with long
disuse, stuck. Panting, sick with fear, the girl leaped away and
crushed herself into a corner, crouching on the floor behind a heavy
box, her dark cloak drawn up to shield her head.
And the door opened.
A flood of radiance from the relighted student lamp fell athwart the
floor. The girl lay close and still, holding her breath.
Ten seconds, perhaps, ticked on into Eternity: seconds that were in
themselves eternities. Then: "No one here, O'Hagan."
The door was closed, and through its panels more faintly came: "Faith,
and the murdhering divvle must've flew th' coop afore ye come in, sor."
The girl tried to rise, to make again for the window; but it was as
though her limbs had turned to water; there was no strength in her; and
the blackness swam visibly before her eyes, radiating away in whirling,
streaky circles.
Even such resolution and strong will as was hers could not prevail
against that numbing, deathly exhaustion. Her eyes closed and her head
fell back against the wall.
It seemed but an instant (though it was in point of fact a full five
minutes) ere the sound of a voice again roused her.
She looked up, dazzled by a gush of warm light.
He stood in the doorway, holding the lamp high above his head, his face
pale, grave, and shadowed as he peered down at her.
"I have sent O'Hagan away," he said gently. "If you will please to
come, now----"