Slowly I realised that Paulton was bending over me, holding me down.
The Baronne de Coudron, upon the opposite side of the bed, had her thin,
strong sinewy hands upon my throat. Beside the gas-jet a yard or two
away, Faulkner stood with his hand still holding the little chain he had
pulled in order to turn on the light.
Nobody spoke.
The Baronne, removing her hands from me, stood upright, big and strong,
gazing down upon me still. She wore an elaborate kimono made of some
soft pink Eastern material. Paulton was in evening clothes, one
shirt-cuff was turned back.
"You should have taken my advice, m'sieur," the Baronne said in her deep
voice, addressing Dago Paulton. She spoke quite calmly.
Instead of answering, and without loosening hold, he half-turned,
apparently undecided what to do, until his eyes rested upon Faulkner.
Then suddenly, to my surprise, he released me. I got up.
"Faulkner, come here," he said sharply.
The young man--he was in the blue pyjamas he had found laid out upon the
bed when Violet de Coudron had shown us into the bedroom--looked quietly
at the speaker for a moment or two, then answered with the utmost
sang-froid--
"I'm not your servant, hang you! Don't speak to me like that."
"You may not be my servant, but I now control your movements," Paulton
retorted quickly. "Therefore you will please do what I order. I take
it that you know that I brought you and Ashton over here."
"Naturally."
"Have you any idea why?"
"None."
"Then I will tell you. Listen."
He was standing beside the bed. The Baronne, near him, looked with
interest at Faulkner and myself as we now stood together a yard or two
away from them.
"For some months past," Paulton said, watching me with an unpleasant
expression, "you have been on intimate terms with the Thorolds."
"Really," I answered, shortly, "I can't see what concern that is of
yours. I have known the Thorolds intimately for a good many years.
Perhaps you will tell me your reason for the extraordinary liberty you
took last night in bringing us here. I consider it a gross
impertinence."
"Impertinence!" he laughed. "Let me tell you both," he said, "that you
have to thank this lady," he turned slightly to indicate the Baronne,
"for being alive to-day. When I brought you here I intended that
neither of you should ever again be heard of. Your disappearance would
have made a stir, no doubt, but the stir would not have lasted; you
would soon have been forgotten here. Dead men tell no tales. But the
Baronne interfered."
"I'm sure we feel deeply grateful," I answered ironically. "One would
think we were conspirators, or criminals, by the way you talk. So far
as I'm aware, I never set eyes on you until last night in the _Hotel de
Paris_."
"Quite likely," he replied, "but that is beside the point. You possess
information you have no right to possess. You know the Thorolds'
secret, and until your lips are closed I shall not feel safe." Ah! that
remarkable secret again! What on earth could it be? That was the
thought that flashed across my mind, but I merely answered--"You can't
suppose I shall reveal it?"
He smiled coldly.
"Not reveal it, man, when you know what is at stake! You must think me
very confiding if you suppose I shall trust your bare assurance. As I
have said, I intended to--to--well, to close both your mouths."
"Why Faulkner's," I asked.
"Because he is to marry Gladys Deroxe, who is so friendly with Vera
Thorold, who is to be my wife. Vera knows too much, and may have told
her little friend what she knows. I mistrust Vera's friends--even her
friends' friends. You understand?"
"At that rate," I answered, growing reckless, "you will need to `remove'
a good many people."
"That is possible. It is for that reason--"
"Oh, why talk so much!" the Baronne interrupted impatiently. "Tell him
everything in a few words, and have done with it!"
"I will." He said fiercely, "You both stand in my way. I brought you
here last night to get rid of you. I came into this room some minutes
ago to carry out my plan. I was going to kill you both with an
anaesthetic. Then the Baronne came in, threatening to wake you if I
tried to do what I had said I should. I felt you touch me in the dark,
I knew we had awakened you, and at once seized you--the Baronne held
your throat to prevent your calling out. Then Faulkner sprang up and
turned on the light and--"
He paused, listening. There had been another cry for help, barely
audible even in the stillness of the night. He glanced at his
companion. She too had heard it.
They looked meaningly at each other, but neither moved to leave the
room. The cry had sounded so piteous that I should myself have rushed
out to ascertain whence it came. Was it Vera's voice? Paulton was near
the door, and to have passed him would have been impossible.
Was it my Vera? The thought held me in a frenzy.
"There is only one way," he went on, as though nothing had happened,
"for you to regain your liberty. I should not offer even this, had not
the Baronne persuaded me to against my better judgment."
"What is the way?"
"You must never attempt to see Vera again. And you, Faulkner, must
write at once to Gladys Deroxe and break off your engagement. It is the
only alternative. Do you both agree?"
Neither of us answered. The suggestion was a childlike one.
"Is there no other way?" I asked at last in order to gain time.
"None."
"Then I refuse absolutely," Faulkner exclaimed hotly.
"Your proposal is ridiculous," I declared with a grin.
Paulton turned furiously on the Baronne.
"I said what it would be!" he broke out with a curse. "Get out of my
way!"
She had sprung in front of him, but he pushed her aside. Again she
rushed forward to stop his doing something--we had not guessed what it
was--and this time he struck her a blow in the face with his open hand,
and with a cry she fell forward on to the bed.
Beside myself, I leapt forward, but Faulkner was nearer to him and I saw
his fist fly out. I did not know then that Faulkner had won "friendly
bouts" against professional light-weight boxers at the National Sporting
Club. It was a stunning blow, Faulkner's fist hit him on the mouth, at
what boxers call the "crucial moment," that is, just before the arm
straightens. Paulton reeled backward, his lower lip rent almost to the
chin.
His hand disappeared. Now it flashed out with a Browning pistol, but as
the shot rang out the woman leapt to her feet and struck his arm away.
An instant later Faulkner was behind him deftly twisting his left arm so
that he bent backward with a scream of pain.
I had wrested the weapon from him ere he could shoot again, and as I
helped Faulkner to hold him down I realised the man's colossal strength.
Mad with fury, and with blood pouring from his mouth, he struggled to
get free. But the twisted arm that Faulkner still clutched tightly by
the wrist with both hands, kept him down. Suddenly he changed his
tactics. He had wormed himself half round on the floor, his teeth
closed tightly upon Faulkner's right shoulder.
"Twist his right arm--quick!" Faulkner shouted at me.
I did so, and the man lay flat upon his back, his two arms screwed so
tightly that I marvelled they did not break.
The strange, warm smell that I had noticed in the room for the first
time some minutes previously, and that had gradually grown stronger, was
now so oppressive that it almost stifled us. Still holding down our
man, we both glanced about the room to find out whence it came, and now
we noticed that the atmosphere was foggy, or so it seemed. The Baronne
was standing by us, staring down at Paulton, but not attempting in any
way to help him. Her gaze was dull, almost vacant. She seemed
stupefied.
An odd noise, as of distant roaring, sounded somewhere in the house. It
was growing louder. All at once I saw the Baronne move quickly to the
door. She listened for a moment, then turned the handle slowly.
As the door opened a little way, a cloud of dense, yellow smoke swept
into the room, choking and nearly blinding us. She slammed the door and
locked it.
"_Dieu_!" she gasped, pale as death.
And then, simultaneously, we knew the awful truth, that the chateau was
on fire; that our only way of escape was made impassable by smoke.