IN THE DAY OF BATTLE
As Gavin Brice sat with feet drawn up under him, listening to
the gruesome slither of the moccasins along the concrete
floor just below he was gripped for a minute by irresistible
terror. It was all so simple--so complete! And he had been
calmly self-confident of his ability to command the situation,
to play these people's own game and to beat them at it.
Grinning and open-eyed he had marched into the trap. He had
been glad to let Hade and Standish think him safely out of
their way, and had planned so confidently to return by stealth
to the mainland that night and to Milo's house!
And now they had had absolutely no difficulty in caging him,
and in arranging that he should be put forever out of their
way. The most stringent inquiry--should any such be made--could
only show that he had been bitten once or more by a
deadly snake. Any post-mortem would bear out the statement.
It was known to every one that many of the keys--even several
miles from the mainland--are infested by rattlesnakes and by
other serpents, though how such snakes ever got to the islands
is as much of a mystery to the naturalist world as is the
presence of raccoons and squirrels on the same keys. It is
simply one of the hundred unsolvable mysteries and puzzles of
the subtropic region.
In his jiu-jutsu instructions Brice had learned a rule which
he had carried into good effect in other walks of life.
Namely to seem to play one's opponent's game and to be fooled
by it, and then, taking the conquering adversary by surprise,
to strike. Thus he had fallen in with Standish's suggestion
that he come to the island, though he had thought himself
fairly sure as to the reason for the request. Thus, too, he
had let himself be lured into this storeroom, still smugly
confident that he held the whip hand of the situation.
And as a result he was looking into the ghastly eyes of death.
Like an engine that "races," his fertile brain was unduly
active in this moment of stark horror, and it ran uselessly.
Into his over-excited mind flashed pictures of a thousand bits
of the past--one of them, by reason of recent association far
more vivid than the rest.
He saw himself with four other A.E.F. officers, standing in a
dim corner of a high-ceiled old room in a ruined chateau in
Flanders. In the room's center was a table. Around this
were grouped a double line of uniformed Americans--a
court-martial. In came two provosts' men leading between them
a prisoner, a man in uniform and wearing the insignia of a
United States army major--the cleverest spy it was said in
all the Wilhelmstrasse's pay, a genius who had grown rich at
his filthy trade of selling out his country's secrets, and
who had been caught at last by merest chance.
The prisoner had glanced smilingly about the half-lit room as
he came in. For the barest fraction of a second his gaze had
flickered over Gavin Brice and the three other officers who
stood there in the shadow. Then, with that same easy,
confident smile on his masklike, pallid face, the spy had
turned his glittering black eyes on the officers at the
courtmartial table.
"Gentlemen," he had said amusedly, "you need not go through
the farce of trying me. I am guilty. I say this with no
bravado and with no fear. Because the bullet has never been
molded and the rope has never been plaited that can kill me.
And the cell is not yet made that can hold me."
He had said it smilingly, and in a velvet suave voice. Yes,
and he had made good his boast. For--condemned to die at
daylight--he had escaped from his ill-constructed prison room
in the chateau a little before dawn and had gotten clean away
after killing one of his guards.
"He never set eyes on me except for that instant, there in the
shadows," Brice found himself reflecting for the hundredth
time. "And there were all the others with me. Yet last night
he recalled my face. It's lucky he didn't recall where he'd
seen it. Or--perhaps he did."
With a start, he came out of his half-hypnotic daze--a daze
which had endured but a few seconds. And once more his
rallying will-power and senses made him acutely alive to the
hideous peril in which he crouched.
Then--in one of the odd revulsions which flash across men at
unnaturally high tension--his daze and his terror merged all
at once into a blaze of wholesome rage. Nor was his rage
directed against Rodney Hade, but against Milo Standish, the
man whose life he had saved not twenty hours earlier, and who
had repaid that mighty service now by helping to arrange his
murder.
At the thought Brice grew hot with fury. He longed to stand
face to face with the blackguard who had rewarded a life-gift
in such vile fashion. He yearned to tell Standish in fiery
words how unspeakable had been the action, and then foot to
foot, fist to fist, to take out of the giant's hide some tithe
of the revenge due for such black ingratitude.
The ferocious impulse set steady his quivering nerves. No
longer did his brain race uselessly. Again it was alert,
resourceful, keen.
Standish! Yes, and no doubt Standish's sister too! The girl
whose eyes had made him feel as if he were on holy ground--the
girl whom he had been so irritatingly unable to get out of his
mind!
With an angry shake of the head Gavin dismissed Claire from
his thoughts. And his newborn hate concentrated on her
brother who had betrayed to death his rescuer. Obsessed with
the fierce craving to stand face to face with the
blonde-bearded giant he banished his lethargy of hopelessness
and cast about for means of escape out of this seemingly
inescapable snare.
First, the key must be found. Then the door must be reached
and opened. In the way of both enterprises writhed a half
dozen or more deadly snakes. And to the problem of winning
past them alive and getting to his enemy. Gavin Brice bent
his trained faculties.
The box whereon he sat was covered with loose boards nailed
down only at one end, a long strip of thin iron or copper
binding the one unopened edge. So much his groping fingers
told him. Moving to one corner of the box top he pushed aside
a board and plunged his hand into the interior. It was as he
had hoped. According to custom when the box had been emptied
the jute and shredded paper stuffing of its contents had been
thrust back into it for future use.
Feverishly, Gavin began to pull forth great handfuls of paper
and of excelsior. These he piled onto the box top. Then,
exerting all his skilled strength, he tugged at the narrow
iron strip which bound, lengthwise, one side of the box.
This task was by no means easy, for the nails were long. And
the iron's sharp edges cut cruelly into the tugging fingers.
But, inch by inch, he tore it free. And at the end of three
minutes he was strengthening and testing a willowy five-foot
strip of metal. Laying this across his knees and fishing up
another double handful of the packing paper and jute he groped
in his pockets with bleeding fingertips for a match.
He found but one. Holding it tenderly he scraped its surface
against his nail--a trick he had picked up in the army. The
sulphur snapped and ignited, the wooden sliver burning freely
in that windless air.
Giving it a good start, he touched the point of flame to the
piled jute and paper in front of him. It caught in an
instant. Still holding the lighted match, he repeated this
ticklish process time after time, tossing handfuls of the
blazing stuff down onto the floor at his side.
In two minutes more he had a gayly-flaming pile of inflammable
material burning high there. Its gleam lightened every inch
of the gloomy room. It brought out into hideous clearness the
writhing dark bodies of the crawling moccasins, even to the
patches of white at their lips which gave them their sinister
name of "cottonmouths." Fat and short and horrible to look
upon, they were, as they slithered and twisted here and there
along the bright-lit floor or coiled and hissed at sight of
the flame and of the fast plying hand and arm of the captive
just above them.
But Brice had scant eyes or heed for them. Now that his blaze
was started past danger of easy extinction, he plunged both
hands again into the box. And now, two handfuls at a time.
he began to cast forth more and more of the stuffing.
With careful aim he threw it. Presently there was a wide line
of jute and paper extending from the main blaze across to the
next box. Then another began to pile up in an opposite
direction, toward the door. The fire ran greedily along these
two lines of fuel.
Meantime the room was no longer so clearly lighted as at
first. For the smoke billowed up to the low roof, and in
thick waves poured out through the small ventilator. Such of
it as could not find this means of outlet doubled back
floorward, filling the room with chokingly thick fumes which
wellnigh blinded and strangled the man and blotted out all
details of shape and direction.
But already Gavin Brice had slipped to the floor, his
thin-shod feet planted in the midst of the blaze, whose flames
and sparks licked eagerly at his ankles and legs.
Following the trail of fire which led to the box. Gavin
strode through the very center of this blazing path, heedless
of the burns. Well did he know the snakes would shrink away
from actual contact with the fire. And he preferred surface
burns to a fatal bite in ankle or foot.
As he reached the box its corners had already caught fire from
the licking flames below. Heaving up the burning receptacle.
Brice looked under it. There lay the rusty key, just visible
through the lurid smoke glare. But not ten inches away from
the far side of it coiled a moccasin, head poised
threateningly as the box grazed it under Gavin's sharp heave.
Stooping, Brice snatched up a great bunch of the flaming paper
and flung it on the serpent's shining coils. In practically
the same gesture he reached with lightning quickness for the
key.
By a few inches he had missed his hurried aim for the
moccasin. He had intended the handful of fire to land on the
floor just in front of it, thus causing it to shrink back.
Instead the burning particles had fallen stingingly among its
coils.
The snake twisted its arrow-shaped head as if to see what had
befallen it. Then catching sight of Brice's swooping hand it
struck.
But the glance backward and the incredibly quick withdrawal of
the man's hand combined to form the infinitesimal space which
separated Gavin from agonizing death. The snake's striking
head missed the fast-retreating fingers by less than a hair's
breadth. The fangs met on the wards of the rusty key Brice
had caught up in his fingertips. The force of the stroke
knocked the key clatteringly to the floor.
Stepping back. Brice flung a second and better aimed handful
of the dwindling fire in front of the re-coiling reptile. It
drew back hissing. And as it did so. Gavin regained the
fallen key.
Wheeling about choking and strangling from the smoke, his
streamingly smarting eyes barely able to discern the fiery
trail he had laid. Brice ran through the midst of the red
line of embers to the door. Reaching it he held the key in
one hand while the sensitive fingers of the other sought the
keyhole.
After what seemed a century he found it, and applied and
turned the key in the stiff lock. With a fierce shove he
pushed open the door. Then as he was about to bound forth
into the glory of the sunset, he started back convulsively.
One moccasin had evidently sought outer air. With this in
view it had stretched itself along the crack of light at the
foot of the door. Now as the door flew wide the snake coiled
itself to strike at the man who had all but stepped on it.
Down whizzed the narrow strip of iron Gavin had wrenched from
the box as a possible weapon. And, though the impact cut
Brice's fingers afresh, the snake lay twisting wildly and
harmlessly with a cloven spine.
Over the writhing body sprang Gavin Brice and out into the
sandy open, filling his smoke-tortured lungs with the fresh
sunset air and blinking away the smoke-damp from his stinging
eyes.
It was then he beheld running toward him three men. Far in
the van was Roke--his attention no doubt having been caught by
the smoke pouring through the ventilator. The two others were
an undersized conch and a towering Bahama negro. All three
carried clubs, and a pistol glittered in Roke's left hand.
Ten feet from the reeling Gavin. Roke opened fire. But, as he
did not halt when he pulled trigger, his shot went wild. Before
he could shoot again or bring his club into action. Brice was
upon him. Gavin smote once and once only with the willowy metal
strip. But he struck with all the dazzling speed of a trained
saber fencer.
The iron strip caught Roke across the eyes, smartingly and
with a force which blinded him for the moment and sent him
staggering back in keen pain. The iron strip doubled
uselessly under the might of the blow, and Gavin dropped it
and ran.
At top speed he set off toward the dock. The conch and the
negro were between him and the pier, and from various
directions other men were running. But only the Bahaman and
the little conch barred his actual line of progress. Both
leaped at him at the same time, as he came dashing down on
them.
The conch was a yard or so in front of the negro. And now the
fugitive saw the Bahaman's supposed cudgel was an iron crowbar
which he wielded as easily as a wand. The negro leaped and at
the same time struck. But, by some queer chance, the conch, a
yard ahead of him, lost his own footing in the shifty sand
just then and tumbled headlong.
He fell directly in the Bahaman's path. The negro stumbled
over him and plunged earthward, the iron bar flying harmless
from his grasp.
"Good little Davy!" apostrophized Brice, as he hurdled the
sprawling bodies and made for the dock.
The way was clear, and he ran at a pace which would not have
disgraced a college sprinter. Once, glancing back over his
shoulder, he saw the Bahaman trying blasphemously to
disentangle his legs from those of the prostrate and wriggling
Davy. He saw, too, Roke pawing at his cut face with both
hairy hands, and heard him bellowing confused orders which
nobody seemed to understand.
Arrived at the dock Gavin saw that Standish's launch was gone.
So, too, was the gaudy little motorboat wherein Rodney Hade
had come to the key. Two battered and paintless motor-scows
remained, and one or two disreputable rowboats.
It was the work of only a few seconds for Brice to cut loose
the moorings of all these craft and to thrust them far out
into the blue water, where wind and tide could be trusted to
bear them steadily farther and farther from shore.
Into the last of the boats--the speedier-seeming of the two
launches--Gavin sprang as he shoved it free from the float.
And, before the nearest of the island men could reach shore,
he had the motor purring. Satisfied that the tide had
caught the rest of the fleet and that the stiff tradewind was
doing even more to send the derelict boats out of reach from
shore or from possible swimmers he turned the head of his
unwieldy launch toward the mainland, pointing it northeastward
and making ready to wind his course through the straits which
laced the various islets lying between him and his destination.
"They'll have a sweet time getting off that key tonight," he
mused in grim satisfaction. "And, unless they can hail some
passing boat, they're due to stay there till Hade or Standish
makes another trip out .... Standish!"
At the name he went hot with wrath. Now that he had achieved
the task of winning free from his prison and from his jailors
his mind swung back to the man he had rescued and who had
sought his death. Anger at the black infamy burned fiercely
in Brice's soul. His whole brain and body ached for redress,
for physical wild-beast punishment of the ingrate. The impulse
dulled his every other faculty. It made him oblivious to the
infinitely more important work he had laid out for himself.
No man can be forever normal when anger takes the reins. And,
for the time, Gavin Brice was deaf and blind to every motive
or caution, and centered his entire faculties on the yearning
to punish Milo Standish. He had fought like a tiger and had
risked his own life to save Standish from the unknown
assailant's knife thrust. Milo, in gross stupidity, had
struck him senseless. And now, coldbloodedly, he had helped
to plan for him the most terrible form of death by torture to
which even an Apache could have stooped. Small wonder that
righteous indignation flared high within the fugitive!
Straight into the fading glory of the sunset. Brice was
steering his wallowing and leaky launch. The boat was
evidently constructed and used for the transporting of fruit
from the key to the mainland. She was slow and of deep
draught. But she was cutting down the distance now between
Gavin and the shore.
He planned to beach her on the strip of sand at the bottom of
the mangrove swamp, and to make his way to the Standish house
through the hidden path whose existence Milo had that day
poohpoohed. He trusted to luck and to justice to enable him
to find the man he sought when once he should reach the house.
His only drawback was the fear lest he encounter Claire as
well. In his present wrathful frame of mind he had no wish to
see or speak with her, and he hoped that she might not mar by
her presence his encounter with her brother.
Between two keys wallowed his chugging boat and into a stretch
of clear water beyond. Then, skirting a low-lying reef, Gavin
headed direct toward the distant patch of yellowish beach
which was his objective.
The sun's upper edge was sinking below the flat skyline.
Mauve shadows swept over the aquamarine expanse of rippling
water. The horizon was dyed a blood-red which was merging into
ashes of roses. On golden Mashta played the last level rays of
the dying sun, caressing the wondrous edifice as though they
loved it. The subtropical night was rushing down upon the
smiling world, and, as ever, it was descending without the long
sweet interval of twilight that northern lands know.
Gavin put the tub to top speed as the last visible obstacle
was left behind. Clear water lay between him and the beach.
And he was impatient to step on land. Under the fresh impetus
the rolling craft panted and wheezed and made her way through
the ripples at a really creditable pace.
As the shadows thickened Brice half-arose in his seat to get a
better glimpse of a little motorboat which had just sprung
into view from around the mangrove-covered headland that cut
off the view of Standish's mainland dock. The boat apparently
had put off from that pier, and was making rapid speed out
into the bay almost directly toward him. He could descry a
figure sitting in the steersman's seat. But by that ebbing
light, he could discern only its blurred outline.
Before Gavin could resume his seat he was flung forward upon
his face in the bottom of his scow. The jar of the tumble
knocked him breathless. And as he scrambled up on hands and
knees he saw what had happened.
Foolish is the boatman who runs at full speed in some of
the southwestern reaches of Biscayne Bay--especially at
dusk--without up-to-date chart or a perfect knowledge of the bay's
tricky soundings. For the coral worm is tireless, and the making
of new reefs is without end.
The fast-driven launch had run, bow-on, into a tooth of coral
barely ten inches under the surface of the smooth water. And,
what with her impetus and the half-rotted condition of her
hull, she struck with such force as to rip a hole in her
forward quarter, wide enough to stick a derby hat through.
In rushed the water, filling her in an incredibly short time.
Settling by the head under the weight of this inpouring flood
she toppled off the tooth of reef and slid free. Then with a
wallowing dignity she proceeded to sink.
The iron sheathing on her keel and hull had not been strong
enough in its rusted state to resist the hammerblow of the
reef. But it was heavy enough, together with her big metal
steering apparatus, to counterbalance any buoyant qualities
left in the wooden frame.
And, down she went, waddling like a fat and ponderous hen,
into a twenty-foot nest of water.
Gavin had wasted no time in the impossible feat of baling her
or of plugging her unpluggable leak. As she went swayingly
toward the bottom of the bay he slipped clear of her and
struck out through the tepid water.
The mangrove swamp's beach was a bare half-mile away. And the
man knew he could swim the intervening space with ease. Yet
the tedious delay of it all irked him and fanned to a blind
fury his rage against Milo. Moreover, now, he could not hope
to reach the hidden path before real darkness should set in.
And he did not relish the idea of traversing its blind mazes
without a glimmer of daylight to guide him.
Yet he struck out, stubbornly, doggedly. As he passed the
tooth of coral that had wrecked his scow the reef gave him a
painful farewell scrape on one kicking knee. He swam on
fuming at this latest annoyance.
Then to his ears came the steady purr of a motorboat. It was
close to him and coming closer.
"Boat ahoy!" he sang out treading water and raising himself as
high as possible to peer about him through the dusk.
"Boat ahoy!" he called again, shouting to be heard above the
motor's hum. "Man overboard! Ten dollars if you'll carry me
to the mainland!"
And now he could see against the paler hue of the sky. the
dark outlines of the boat's prow. It was bearing down on him.
Above the bow's edge he could make out the vague silhouette of
a head and upper body.
Then into his memory flashed something which the shock of his
upsetting had completely banished. He recalled the motorboat
which had darted, arrow-like, out from around the southern
edge of the mangrove swamp, and which he had been watching
when his scow went to pieces on the reef.
If this were the same boat--if its steersman chanced to be
Milo Standish crossing to the key to learn if his murderplot
had yet culminated--so much the better! Man to man, there
between sea and sky in the gathering gloom, they could settle
the account once and for all.
Perhaps Standish had recognized him. Perhaps he merely took
him for some capsized fisherman. In either event, a swimming
man is the most utterly defenseless of all creatures against
attack from land or from boat. And Gavin was not minded to
let Standish finish his work with boat-hook or with oar. If
he and his foe were to meet it should be on even terms.
The boat had switched off power and was coming to a
standstill. Gavin dived. He swam clean under the craft,
lengthwise, coming up at its stern and farthest from that
indistinct figure in the prow.
As he rose to the surface he caught with both hands the narrow
overhang of the stern, and with a mighty heave he hoisted
himself hip-high out of the water.
Thence it was the work of a bare two seconds for him to swing
himself over the stern and to land on all fours in the bottom
of the boat. The narrow craft careened dangerously under such
treatment. But she righted herself, and by the time he had
fairly landed upon the cleated bottom. Brice was on his feet
and making for the prow. He was ready now for any emergency
and could meet his adversary on equal terms.
"Mr. Brice!" called the boat's other occupant, springing up,
her sweet voice trembling and almost tearful. "Oh, thank God
you're safe! I was so frightened!"
"Miss Standish!" sputtered Gavin, aghast. "Miss Standish!"
For a moment they stood staring at each other through the
darkness, wordless, breathing hard. Their quick breath and
the trickling of fifty runnels of water from Gavin's drenched
clothes into the bottom of the once-tidy boat alone broke the
tense stillness of sky and bay. Then:
"You're safe? You're not harmed?" panted the girl.
And the words brought back with a rush to Gavin Brice all he
had been through.
"Yes," he made harsh answer trying to steady his rage-choked
voice. "I am safe. I am not harmed. Apart from a few
fire-blisters on my ankles and the charring of my clothes and
the barking of one knee against a bit of submerged coral and
the cutting of my fingers rather badly and a few more minor
mischances--I'm quite safe and none the worse for the Standish
family's charming hospitality. And, by the way, may I suggest
that it might have been better for your brother or the
gentle-hearted Mr. Hade to run across to the key to get news
of my fate, instead of sending a girl on such an errand? It's
no business of mine, of course. And I don't presume to
criticize two such noble heroes. But surely they ought not
have sent you. If their kindly plan had worked out according
to schedule. I should not have been a pretty sight for a
woman to look at, by this time. I--"
"I--I don't understand half of the things you're saying!" she
cried, shrinking from his taunting tone
as from a fist-blow. "They don't make any sense to me. But I
do see why you're so angry. And I don't blame you. It was
horrible! Horrible! It--"
"It was all that," he agreed drily, breaking in on her
quivering speech and steeling himself against its pitiful
appeal. "All that. And then some. And it's generous of you
not to blame me for being just the very tiniest least bit
riled by it. That helps. I was afraid my peevishness might
displease you. My temper isn't what it should be. If it were
I should be apologizing to you for getting your nice boat all
sloppy like this."
"Please!" she begged. "Please! Won't you please try not
to--to think too hardly of my brother? And won't you please
acquit me of knowing anything of it? I didn't know.
Honestly. Mr Brice. I didn't. When Milo came back home
without you he told me you had decided to stay on at
Roustabout Key to help Roke, till the new foreman could come
from Homestead."
"Quite so," assented Gavin, his voice as jarring as a file's.
"I did. And he decided that I shouldn't change my mind.
He--"
"It wasn't till half an hour ago," she hurried on, miserably,
"that I knew. I was coming down stairs. Milo and Rodney Hade
were in the music-room together. I didn't mean to overhear.
But oh, I'm so glad I did!"
"I'm glad it could make you so happy," he said. "The pleasure
is all yours."
"All I caught was just this:" she went on. "Rodney was
saying: 'Nonsense! Roke will have let him out before now.
And there are worse places to spend a hot afternoon in than
locked snugly in a cool storeroom.'"
"Are there?" interpolated Brice. "I'd hate to test that."
"All in a flash. I understood," she continued, her sweet
voice struggling gallantly against tears. "I knew Rodney
didn't want us to have any guests or to have any outsiders at
all at our house. He was fearfully displeased with us last
night for having you there. It was all we could do to
persuade him that the man who had saved Milo's life couldn't
be turned out of doors or left to look elsewhere for work. It
was only when Milo promised to give you work at the key that
he stopped arguing and being so imperative about it. And when
I heard him speak just now about your being locked in a store
room there. I knew he had done it to prevent your coming back
here for a while."
"Your reasoning was most unfeminine in its correctness,"
approved Gavin, still forcing himself to resist the piteous
pleading in her voice.
He could see her flinch under the harshness of his tone as she
added:
"And all at once I realized what it must mean to you and what
you must think of us--after all you'd done for Milo. And I
knew how a beast like Roke would be likely to treat you when
he knew my brother and Rodney had left you there at the mercy
of his companionship. There was no use talking to them. It
might be hours before I could convince them and make them go
or send for you. And I couldn't bear to have you kept there
all that time. So I slipped out of the house and ran to the
landing. Just as I got out into the bay. I saw you coming
through that strait back there. I recognized the fruit
launch. And I knew it must be you. For nobody from the key
would have run at such speed toward that clump of reefs. You
capsized before I could get to you, and--"
She shuddered, and ceased to speak. For another moment or two
there was silence between them. Gavin Brice's mind was busy
with all she said. He was dissecting and analyzing her every
anxious word. He was bringing to bear on the matter not only
his trained powers of logic but his knowledge of human nature.
And all at once he knew this trembling girl was in no way
guilty of the crime attempted against him. He knew, too, from
the speech of Hade's which she had just repeated, that
Standish presumably had had no part in the attempted murder,
but that that detail had been devised by Hade for Roke to put
into execution. Nor, evidently had Davy been let into the
secret by Roke.
In a few seconds Brice had revised his ideas as to the
afternoon's adventures, and had come to a sudden decision.
Speaking with careful forethought and with a definite object
in view, he said:
"Miss Standish. I do not ask pardon for the way I spoke to
you just now. And when you've heard why you won't blame me,
I want to tell you just what happened to me today from the
time I set foot on Roustabout Key, until I boarded this boat
of yours. When you realize that I thought your brother and
probably yourself were involved in it to the full you'll
understand, perhaps, why I didn't greet you with overmuch
cordiality. Will you listen?"
She nodded her head, wordless, not trusting her voice to speak
further. And she sank back into the seat she had quitted.
Brice seated himself on the thwart near her, and began to
speak, while the boat, its power still shut off bobbed lazily
on a lazier sea.
Tersely, yet omitting no detail except that of his talk with
Davy, he told of the afternoon's events. She heard, wide-eyed
and breathing fast. But she made no interruption, except when
he came to the episode of the moccasins she cried aloud in
horror, and caught unconsciously his lacerated hand between
her own warm palms.
The clasp of her fingers, unintentional as it was, sent a
strange thrill through the man, and, for an instant, he
wavered in his recital. But he forced himself to continue.
And after a few seconds the girl seemed to realize what she
was doing. For she withdrew her hands swiftly, and clasped
them together in her lap.
As he neared the end of his brief story she raised her hands
again. But they did not seek his. Instead she covered her
horrified eyes with them, and she shook all over.
When he had finished he could see she was fighting for
self-control. Then, in a flood, the power of speech came back
to her.
"Oh!" she gasped, her flower-face white and drawn,
in the faint light. "Oh, it can't be. It can't! There must
be a hideous mistake somewhere!"
"There is," he agreed, with a momentary return to his former
manner. "There was one mistake. I made it, by escaping.
Otherwise the plan was flawless. Luckily, a key had been
left on the floor. And luckily, I got hold of it. Luckily,
too, I had a match with me. And, if there are sharks as near
land as this, luckily you happened to meet me as I was
swimming for shore. As to mistakes--. Have you a
flashlight?"
From her pocket she drew a small electric torch she had had
the foresight to pick up from the hall table as she ran out.
Gavin took it and turned its rays on his wet ankles. His
shoes and trouser-legs still showed clear signs of the
scorching they had received. And his palms were cut and
abraded.
"If I had wanted to make up a story," said he. "I could have
devised one that didn't call for such painful stage-setting."
"Oh, don't!" she begged. "Don't speak so flippantly of it!
How can you? And don't think for one instant, that I doubted
your word. I didn't. But it didn't seem possible that such a
thing--Mr. Brice!" she broke off earnestly. "You mustn't--you
can't--think that Milo knew anything of this! I mean
about the--the snakes and all. He is enough to blame--he has
shamed our hospitality and every trace of gratitude enough--by
letting you be locked in there at all and by consenting to
have you marooned on the key. I'm not trying to excuse him
for that. There's no excuse. And without proof I wouldn't
have believed it of him. But at least you must believe he had
no part in--in the other--"
"I do believe it," said Gavin, gently, touched to the heart
by her grief and shame. "At first, I was certain he had
connived at it. But what you overheard proves he didn't."
"Thank you," she said simply.
This time it was his hand that sought hers. And, even as she,
he was unconscious of the action.
"You mustn't let this distress you so," he soothed, noting
her effort to fight back the tears. "It all came out safely
enough. But--I think I've paid to-day for my right to ask
such a question--how does it happen that you and your
brother--you, especially--can have sunk to such straits that
you take orders meekly from a murderer like Rodney Hade, and
that you let him dictate what guests you shall or shan't
receive?"
She shivered all over.
"I--I have no right to tell you," she murmured. "It isn't my
secret. I have no right to say there is any secret. But
there is! And it is making my life a torture! If only you
knew--if only there were some one I could turn to for help or
even for advice! But I'm all alone, except for Milo. And
lately he's changed so! I--"
She broke down all at once in her valiant attempt at
calmness. And burying her face in her hands again she burst
into a tempest of weeping. Gavin Brice, a lump in his own
throat, drew her to him. And she clung to his soaked coat
lapels hiding her head on his drenched breast.
There was nothing of love or of sex in the action. She was
simply a heartbroken child seeking refuge in the strength of
some one older and stronger than she. Gavin realized it, and
he held her to him and comforted her as though she had been
his little sister.
Presently the passion of convulsive weeping passed, leaving
her broken and exhausted. Gavin knew the girl's powers of
mental resistance were no longer strong enough to overcome her
need for a comforter to whom she could unburden her soul of
its miserable perplexities.
She had drawn back from his embrace but she still sat close to
him, her hands in his, pathetically eager for his sympathy and
aid. The psychological moment had come and Gavin Brice knew
it. Loathing himself for the role he must play and vowing
solemnly to his own heart that she should never be allowed to
suffer for any revelation she might make, he said with a
gentle insistence, "Tell me."