IN QUARRY HOUSE
THE first impression that Ella Bennett had when she returned to the
kitchen to fasten the door that shut off the sitting-room, was that the
tea-cloth, which she had hung up to dry on the line near the lofty
ceiling, had fallen. With startling suddenness she was enveloped in the
folds of a heavy, musty cloth. And then an arm was flung round her, a
hand covered her mouth and drew back her head. She tried to scream, but
no sound came. She kicked out toward the door and an arm clutched at her
dress and pulled back her foot. She heard the sound of something
tearing, and then a strap was put round her ankles. She felt the rush of
the cold air as the door was opened, and in another second she was in
the garden.
“Walk,” hissed a voice, and she discovered her feet were loosened.
She could see nothing, only she could feel the rain beating down upon
the cloth that covered her head, and the strength of the wind against
her face. It blew the cloth so tightly over her mouth and nose that she
could hardly breathe. Where they were taking her she could only guess.
It was not until she felt her feet squelch in liquid mud that she knew
she was in the lane by the side of the house. She had hardly identified
the place before she was lifted bodily into the waiting car; she heard
somebody scrambling in by her side, and the car jerked forward. Then
with dexterous hand, one of the men sitting at her side whisked the
cloth from her head. Ahead, in one of the two bucket seats, the only one
occupied, was a dark figure, the face of which she could not see.
“What are you doing? Who are you?” she asked, and no sooner did the
voice of the man before her come to her ears than she knew she was in
the power of the Frog.
“I’m going to give you your last chance,” he said. “After to-night that
chance is gone.”
She composed the tremor in her voice with an effort, and then:
“What do you mean by my last chance?” she asked.
“You will undertake to marry me, and to leave the country with me in the
morning. I’ve such faith in you that I will take your word,” he said.
She shook her head, until she realized that, in the darkness, he could
not see her.
“I will never do that,” she answered quietly, and no other word was
spoken through the journey. Once, at a whispered word from the man in
the mask—she saw the reflection of his mica eye-pieces even though the
blinds were drawn, as the car went through some village street—one of
the men looked back through the glass in the hood.
“Nothing,” he said.
No violence was offered to her; she was not bound, or restricted in any
way, though she knew it was perfectly hopeless for her to dream of
escape.
They were running along a dark country road when the car slowed and
stopped. The passengers turned out quickly; she was the last. A man
caught her arm as she descended and led her, through an opening of the
hedge, into what seemed to her to be a ploughed field.
The other came after her, bringing her an oilskin coat and helping her
into it.
The rain flogged across the waste, rattling against the oil-coat; she
heard the man holding her arm mutter something under his breath. The
Frog walked ahead, only looking back once. She slipped and stumbled, and
would have often fallen but for the hand which held her up.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked at last.
There was no reply. She wondered if she could wrench herself free, and
trust to the cover of darkness to hide her, but even as the thought
occurred, she saw a gleam of water to the right—a round, ghostly patch.
“These are Morby Fields,” she said suddenly, recognizing the place.
“You’re taking me to the quarry.”
Again no answer. They tramped on doggedly, until she knew they were
within measurable distance of the quarry itself. She wondered what would
be her fate when she finally refused, as she would refuse. Did this
terrible man intend to kill her?
“Wait,” said the Frog suddenly, and disappeared into the gloom.
Then she saw a light, which came from a small wooden house; two patches
of light, one long, one square—a window and a door. The window
disappeared as he closed the shutter. Then his figure stood silhouetted
in the doorway.
“Come,” he said, and she went forward.
At the door of the hut she drew back, but the hand on her arm tightened.
She was pushed into the interior, and the door was slammed and bolted.
She was alone with Frog!
Curiosity overcame her fear. She looked round the little room. It was
about ten feet long by six feet broad. The furnishings were simple: a
bed, a table, two chairs and a fireplace. The wooden floor was covered
by an old and grimy rug. Against one of the walls were piled two shallow
wooden boxes, and the wood was new. The mask followed the direction of
her eyes and she heard his slow chuckle.
“Money,” he said tersely, “your money and my money. There is a million
there.”
She looked, fascinated. Near the boxes were four long glass cylinders,
containing an opaque substance or liquid—she could not tell from where
she stood. The nature of this the Frog did not then trouble to explain.
“Sit down,” he said.
His manner was brisk and businesslike. She expected him to take off his
mask as he seated himself opposite her, but in this she was
disappointed. He sat, and through the mica pieces she saw his hard eyes
watching her.
“Well, Ella Bennett, what do you say? Will you marry me, or will you go
into a welcome oblivion? You leave this hut either as my wife, or we
leave together—dead.”
He got up and went to where the glass cylinders lay and touched one.
“I will smash one of these with my foot and take off my mask, and you
shall have at least the satisfaction that you know who I am before you
die—but only just before you die!”
She looked at him steadily.
“I will never marry you,” she said, “never! If for no other reason, for
your villainous plot against my brother.”
“Your brother is a fool,” said the hollow voice. “He need never have
gone through that agony, if you had only promised to marry me. I had a
man ready to confess, I myself would have taken the risk of supporting
his confession.”
“Why do you want to marry me?” she asked.
It sounded banal, stupid. Yet so grotesque was the suggestion, that she
could talk of the matter in cold blood and almost without emotion.
“Because I love you,” was the reply. “Whether I love you as Dick Gordon
loves you, I do not know. It may well be that you are something which I
cannot possess, and therefore are all the more precious to me—I have
never been thwarted in any desire.”
“I would welcome death,” she said quickly, and she heard the muffled
chuckle.
“There are worse things than death to a sensitive woman,” he said
significantly, “and you shall not die until the end.”
He did not attempt to speak again, but, pulling a pack of cards from his
pocket, played solitaire. After an hour’s play, he swept the cards into
the fireplace and rose.
He looked at her and there was something in his eyes that froze her
blood.
“Perhaps you will never see my face,” he said, and reached out his hand
to the oil lamp which stood on the table.
Lower and lower sank the flame, and then came a gentle tap at the door.
_Tap . . . tap . . . tappity . . . tap!_
The Frog stood still, his hand upon the lamp.
_Tap . . . tap . . . tappity . . . tap!_
It came again. He turned up the light a little and went to the door.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Hagn,” said a deep voice, and the Frog took a startled step backward.
“Quick! Open!’”
The mask turned the heavy bar, and, taking a key from his pocket, he
drew back the lock.
“Hagn, how did you get away?”
The door was pushed open with such violence that he was flung back
against the wall, and Ella uttered a scream of joy.
Standing in the doorway was a bareheaded man, in a shining trench-coat.
It was Joshua Broad.
“Keep back!”
He did not look round, but she knew the words were addressed to her and
stood stock-still. Both Broad’s hands were in the deep pockets of his
coat; his eyes did not leave the mask.
“Harry,” he said softly, “you know what I want.”
“Take yours!” screeched the Frog. His hand moved so quickly that the
girl could not follow it.
Two shots rang out together and the Frog staggered back against the
wall. His foot was within a few inches of the glass cylinders, and he
raised it. Again Broad fired, and the Frog fell backward, his head in
the fireplace. He came struggling to his feet, and then, with a little
choking sob, fell backward, his arms outstretched.
There was a sound of voices outside, a scraping of feet on the muddy
path, and John Bennett came into the hut. In a moment the girl was in
his arms. Broad looked round. Elk and Dick Gordon were standing in the
doorway, taking in the scene.
“Gentlemen,” said Joshua Broad, “I call you to witness that I killed
this man in self-defence.”
“Who is it?” said Dick.
“It is the Frog,” said Joshua Broad calmly. “His other name is Harry
Lyme. He is an English convict.”
“I knew it was Harry Lyme.” It was Elk who spoke. “Is he dead?”
Broad stooped and thrust his hand under the man’s waistcoat.
“Yes, he is dead,” he announced simply. “I’m sorry that I have robbed
you of your prey, Mr. Elk, but it was vitally necessary that he should
be killed before I was, and one of us had to die this night!”
Elk knelt by the still figure and began to unfasten the hideous rubber
mask.
“It was here that Genter was killed,” said Dick Gordon in a low voice.
“Do you see the gas?”
Elk looked at the glass cylinders and nodded. Then his eyes came back to
the bareheaded American.
“Saul Morris, I believe?” he said, and “Joshua Broad” nodded.
Elk pursed his lips thoughtfully, and his eyes went back to the still
figure at his feet.
“Now, Frog, let me see you,” he said, and tore away the mask.
He looked down into the face of Philosopher Johnson!