Every word of the conversation was quite plain and distinct. Richford
seemed to be very vexed about something, but on the other hand Sartoris
appeared to be on the best of terms with himself.
"You tried to get the better of us," he was saying. "You thought that
clever people like ourselves were going to be mere puppets in the play,
that we were going to pull your chestnuts for you. You with the brains
of a rabbit, and the intelligence of a tom cat! That low cunning of
yours is all very well in the City, but it is of no use with me. Where
are those diamonds?"
"Those diamonds are so safe that we can't touch them," Richford sneered.
"Very well, my friend. Believe me, we shall know how to act when the
time comes. But you are wasting time here. You should be in Edward
Street long ago. Edward Street in the Borough; you know the place I
mean. The others are there, Reggie and Cora and the rest, to say nothing
of the object of our solicitous desires. You follow me?"
"Oh, yes, I follow everything, confound you," Richford growled. "You are
trying to frighten me with your cry of danger. As if I was fool enough
to believe that story."
"You can just please yourself whether you believe it or not," Sartoris
replied. "But the danger is real enough. I have had the salt two days
now in succession. It is true that it came by post and was not addressed
to me here, but it is proof positive of the fact that our yellow friends
are on the right track at last. They may even be outside now. That is
why I want you to go as far as Edward Street without delay."
Richford seemed to be convinced at last, for he made no reply.
"And you need not worry about your wife for the present," Sartoris went
on. "So long as she _is_ your wife you come in for your share of the
plunder when the division takes place. Nor need you let her know that
you married her for her fortune, and not for her pretty face. People
will be surprised to discover what a rich man Sir Charles really was."
Berrington started with surprise. A great flood of light had been let in
on the scene in the last few words of this overheard conversation. So
there was a large fortune somewhere, and this was at the bottom of this
dark conspiracy. The conversation trailed off presently, and Berrington
heard no more. But his heart was beating now with fierce exultation, for
he had heard enough. Without knowing it, Sir Charles Darryll had been a
rich man. But those miscreants knew it, and that was the reason why they
were working in this strange way. A door closed somewhere and then there
was silence. It was quite evident that Richford had left the house.
A minute or two later and Berrington got his flash signal at work. He
used it over and over again for an hour or so in the hope that the house
was being watched. A great sigh of satisfaction broke from him presently
when he knew the signal was being answered. Once more there was an
irritating delay and then the quick tapping of the reply. Field was not
far off, and Field had grasped the scheme. Also he had to send for
somebody to translate the flashing signs. Berrington understood it now
as well as if he had been outside with the police.
He sent his messages through quickly now, and received his replies as
regularly. Nor did he forget to impart the information he had discovered
relative to the house in Edward Street, Borough. On the whole it had not
been a bad night's work.
A restless desire to be up and doing something gripped Berrington. He
wandered impatiently about the room, listening at the tube from time to
time, in the hope of getting something fresh. Down below he could hear
the sharp purring of the electric bell and the shuffle of Sartoris's
chair over the floor of the hall. Then there was a quick cry which
stopped with startling suddenness, as if a hand had gripped the throat
of somebody who called out with fear.
For a little time after that, silence. Then voices began to boom
downstairs, voices in strange accents that seemed to be demanding
something. Evidently foreigners of some kind, Berrington thought, as he
strained his ears to catch something definite. Sartoris seemed to be
pleading for somebody, and the others were stern and determined. It was
some time before Berrington began to understand what nationality the
newcomers were. A liquid voice was upraised.
"Burmah," Berrington cried. "I thought I knew the tongue. Burmese beyond
a doubt. I wish those fellows would not speak quite so quickly. I wish
that I had learned a little more of the language when I had the
opportunity. Ah, what was that?"
A familiar phrase had struck home to the old campaigner. One of the
newcomers was saying something about rubies. There were ruby mines in
Burmah, some of which had never been explored by white men. Sir Charles
Darryll had been out there in his younger days and so had his friend,
the Honourable Edward Decie. Suppose that rubies had something to do
with the papers that Sartoris declared Sir Charles possessed. Berrington
was feeling now that his weary hours of imprisonment had by no means
been wasted. He heard Sartoris's sullen negative, a sound of a blow, and
a moan of pain, then silence again.
Perhaps those strangers downstairs were applying torture. Berrington had
heard blood-curdling stories of what the Burmese could do in that way.
Bad as he was, Sartoris had never lacked pluck and courage, and he was
not the man to cry out unless the pain was past endurance. The guttural
language returned; it was quite evident that Sartoris was being forced
to do something against his will.
"You shall have it," he said at last. "I'll ask my secretary to bring
the papers down."
There was a shuffling of Sartoris's chair across the floor, and then a
puff of wind came up the tube. Very quickly Berrington replaced the
whistle. It flashed across him that Sartoris was going to call him to
assist to get rid of those yellow friends downstairs. But how was that
going to be done so long as the door was locked?
"Are you there?" Sartoris asked in French, and in a whisper, so low that
Berrington could hardly hear. "Speak to me, Colonel, and use the same
language that I am using."
"All right," Berrington replied. "Anything wrong downstairs? What can I
do to help you?"
"Come down as quickly as possible. Take your boots off, and creep into
my study. I am in the hands of two Burmese, members of a society to
which I belonged at one time. They have come to have my life or certain
information that I decline to give them. You know enough of the East to
be able to appreciate my danger."
The story was more or less of a lie, as Berrington was perfectly well
aware, but there was a large amount of truth in it, nevertheless.
Berrington smiled to himself.
"There is one little hitch in the programme," he said. "You seem to
forget that I am a prisoner here, behind a door that is protected by
steel."
"I had forgotten that for the moment," Sartoris proceeded rapidly. "But
it is quite possible to open the door from the inside, if you know the
secret. Turn the handle four times to the right quickly and firmly, and
then three times to the left, and the door will open. I dare not say any
more, as these fellows are beginning to look at me suspiciously. One
minute more, and I have finished. There is an old Dutch bureau at the
top of the stairs by your door. In the second drawer on the right is a
loaded revolver. You may want to use it----"
The voice suddenly ceased, and a cry of pain floated up again. All the
old fighting spirit raged in Berrington's veins now. He was going to be
free, he would have a weapon that he well knew how to use in his hands,
and he had obtained information of the most valuable kind. With his hand
on the knob of the door he followed directions. Four times to the right
and three to the left! A pull, and the door came open.
Berrington was free at last. As soon as he realised that fact his
professional caution came back to him. He kicked off his boots, and
finding the Webley revolver, loaded in all chambers, he crept like a cat
down the stairs, and looked into the study.
Sartoris lay back in his chair with his hands bound to his sides. Round
his head the two strangers had strung a piece of knotted whipcord which
one of them was drawing tighter and tighter with the aid of a penknife
twisted in the bandage. The face of the victim was ghastly white, his
eyes rolled, and the great beads poured down his cheeks. Berrington had
heard of that kind of torture before. His blood was boiling now, not
that he had any cause for sympathy with the little man in the chair.
"My God, I can't stand this much longer," Sartoris moaned. "Will that
fellow never come! Or has he failed to understand my instructions? My
brain is blazing. Help, help."
Berrington strode into the room, resolutely but softly. The little
yellow man who was administering the torture seemed to have his whole
heart in his work; he graduated the torture to a nicety. He seemed to
understand exactly how much the victim could stand without losing life
and reason altogether. He was like a doctor with an interesting patient.
"I think you will tell me where to find what we desire?" he said
smoothly.
"And then we can depart and trouble the gentleman no more," said the
other man, who was looking on as coolly as if at some landscape. "Why
put us to all this trouble?"
"I'll tell you," Sartoris moaned. "If you will look in the----God be
praised!"
The last words came with a yell, for the startled eyes had caught sight
of Berrington standing grimly in the background. The latter's left hand
shot out and the Burmese who held the penknife in the cord staggered
across the room from the force of a blow on the temple, which, had it
taken full effect, would have felled him like an ox.
Before he could recover from the full impact of the blow, Berrington was
on the other man. Then the two closed on him as he backed to the wall
and raised his revolver.
"You see that I am too many for you," he said. "Put down those knives."
For two long cutting knives were gleaming in the light of the electrics.
Nothing daunted, the pair made a rush at Berrington, who fired right and
left. He had no intention that the shots should be fatal, but they both
took effect, one in the shoulder and the other in the arm. When the
smoke cleared away Berrington and Sartoris were alone. A cold stream of
air pouring into the room testified to the fact that the front door had
not been closed by the miscreants in their escape. Berrington cut the
cord around the victim's head and bathed his forehead with water. A
little brandy seemed to effect something in the way of a cure.
"My God, that was awful, awful," Sartoris moaned. "A second more and I
should have died. Would you mind shutting the front door? The cold air
makes me feel like death. That's better. I dare say you wonder what
those fellows were doing here?"
There was just a touch of slyness in the question. Berrington smiled to
himself. He wondered what Sartoris would say if he only knew how much
the listener had overheard.
"I suppose your sins are finding you out," he said. "They generally do.
Personally, I have no curiosity on the subject at all. And I have not
the slightest doubt that your punishment, though pretty severe, was at
the same time well deserved. And now, sir, as fate has given me the whip
hand of you, have you any reason to urge why I should stay in this house
any longer? I take it that you are not quite in a position to place your
electric battery at work from this room as you did from the other. If
you like to----"
Berrington paused, as there was a loud knocking at the door. Sartoris's
pale face grew still paler as he listened. Then he forced a smile to his
pallid lips.
"Don't take any heed," he said eagerly. "Let them go away again under
the impression that nobody is at the house. Let them knock all night if
they like."
But Berrington was already half-way to the door.