KITTY was undoubtedly nearing the limit of human endurance. Threats and
offers of bribes had alike failed to move the red-faced woman; not one
out of a hundred questions had she answered save by the formula, “I’m
sure I couldn’t say, Miss,” or, “You’ll have to ask himself about that.”
It was the fourth night of her incarceration, the third since Symington’s
visit. At first she had demanded his presence; later she had implored.
The reply was always the same: “Maybe soon; but you must have patience,
Miss.” Less than an hour ago she had heard it, and now the quaint little
clock on the wall, which she had sometimes loved for its “company,” and
sometimes wanted to smash for its heartlessness, tinkled nine. Was
another day going to pass without relief, another night of awful
uncertainty approaching? She had given up trying to persuade herself
that her captor was not vile enough to carry out his menace against
Colin—for Colin, she could not doubt, was the second prisoner.
Symington, asserted Despair, was surely vile enough for the dirtiest
work, since he could so torture the mind of a helpless girl.
And yet Kitty Carstairs was not at the very end of her wits. One thing
she had in her power to do. She could starve herself! Yesterday she had
scarcely touched food; to-day she had not broken her fast. The tempting
meals had gone out of the room as they had been brought in. There on the
table, with its mocking carnations, was a silver tray bearing sundry
delicacies, exquisitely served, which the woman had left on her last
visit for the night. It taxed the girl’s powers of resistance, but her
spirit conquered her flesh.
“God, hear me,” she whispered; “let me not eat till I am convinced that
Colin has had food.” She was feeling weak and somewhat faint, but the
sickly headache had abated, and her mind was very clear.
“I will try once more,” she told herself. “I will pretend to be ill, and
that may bring him. Then I will show him I am determined to starve. I
shouldn’t be much use to him dead!”
Her finger was on the bell when she heard a sound in the passage. The
bolt was drawn back, and Symington’s voice said: “Get to your bed. I
don’t want to see you again to-night.” A rough voice answered: “Right
you are, sir. Good night.”
Then Symington entered. He had been keeping himself firmly in hand all
day; he had an exhausted look, and was rather pale.
Without preface he exclaimed in hurt tones: “Kitty, what’s wrong with the
food?”
“Is your other prisoner getting the same?” she asked quietly, approaching
the table.
His laugh was lost in a crash.
Kitty had lifted the tray and flung it at his feet.
“There’s your rubbish!” she panted, catching hold of a chair-back. “You
can’t beat me!”
“By God!” he exclaimed furious, then restrained himself. “You can’t keep
it up, Kitty, my dear. One day of real hunger is nothing to brag about.
Wait till you see my other prisoner. I’m going to take you there now.
He has had three days of it—and no water since yesterday. He’ll advise
you not to be foolish.”
“You beast!”
He winced, but merely said, “Come!”
She did not hesitate even when he took hold of her arm.
“You are a great fool,” she said. “Can’t you understand that any decent
man would advise me to commit suicide rather than marry you?”
“Be silent!” His fingers crushed her flesh.
He led her along a passage lit by electricity. A couple of windows, she
noticed, were boarded over with metal-lined wood. They passed a couple
of doors similarly strengthened and with stout bolts apparently new.
They turned a corner and stopped. The topmost third of the door in front
of them had been cut away, and the opening fitted with slim upright steel
bars.
“Look in,” said Symington.
Kitty saw a chamber which might have served as a storeroom in the past.
The shelving had been removed; the walls were torn and filthy. A table,
a chair, and an ancient sofa constituted the furnishings. A single light
hung from the ceiling.
On the sofa lay a young man, the state of whose raiment suggested a very
long journey without a dressing-case. His face was grey and pinched; his
hands made vague, nervous movements.
“Oh, Colin!” she cried.
His eyes opened, peeringly; he struggled into a sitting posture, and
pressed a hand to his brow,
“Why, it’s Kitty!” he said, with a laugh that died abruptly. “I’d
forgotten,” he muttered.
A short pause, then—“So we’re both prisoners. But he won’t starve you,
Kitty. Well, I hope our jailer is enjoying himself while it lasts. Oh,
you’re there, Symington! Kitty, has he told you about the thrashing I
gave him the other night?”
Symington turned away with a badly suppressed snarl.
“Oh, did you, Colin? Thank you, thank you! But, Colin, what am I to do?
He’s starving you, and says he’ll give you nothing till I promise to
marry him.”
“Really! What a gentleman he is! Of course you’ll marry him!”
“Come!” said Symington roughly.
Kitty held on to the bars. “Colin, I’m starving myself—”
“No, no! For God’s sake, Kitty—” Colin rose, but staggered. “I’ll pull
through. And don’t you be afraid. It’s only for a little longer,” he
said, and got to the door. “Let me touch your hand, Kitty, and I’ll pull
through.”
“Let go!” Symington said savagely, “or—”
“Forgive me, I’ve kissed your hand, Kitty dear,” said Colin in a weak,
husky voice.
Beside himself, Symington tore her from the door inside which Colin had
fallen. As he left her in her own room he said—
“You’ll feel and think differently to-morrow. I shan’t see you till
then. Going now to Dunford. But before I leave I’ll supply our friend
with plenty of water—well salted.”