They went out and Lucy sat down, feeling disturbed but somewhat
comforted. It was plain that Foster shared her fears and knew more
than she did, but in another minute or two he would join his comrade,
and Lawrence would be safe when he was there.
In the meantime, Walters lighted a cigarette Lawrence gave him in his
room and sat down to examine the photographs. There were a number of
views of the mountains and a group of figures occupied the foreground
of several. A guest at the hotel with some talent for photography had
taken the pictures, and after a time Walters picked out two in which
Lucy and Lawrence appeared.
"I'll take these, if I'm not robbing you," he said and waited until
Lawrence put on a Tuxedo jacket, when he resumed: "Well, I suppose we
had better go down. Are you coming?"
He went out and as Lawrence crossed the floor to turn off the light,
called back: "I forgot the pictures; they're on the bureau. The
elevator's coming up and I'll keep it when it's here."
Lawrence told him to do so. The lift had stopped between the floors on
their ascent, and the electric light inside it had gone out, while the
boy said something about his not being able to run it much longer. The
photographs, however, were not on the bureau and Lawrence searched the
room before he found them on the bed. Then he turned off the light and
went into the passage, which was rather dark. The lamp at the shaft
was not burning, but he could see Walters beckoning at the gate.
"He wants to get down before the motor stops," the latter said.
Lawrence hurried along the passage, and when he reached the shaft
Walters put his hand on the folding ironwork.
"Come along; his light's out," he said to Lawrence, and added, as if to
somebody in the lift: "Start her off! I'll shut the gate."
Lawrence stepped forward and then clutched the ironwork as his advanced
foot went down into empty space. Instead of the floor of the lift,
there was a dark gap beneath him, and he knew he had come very near to
plunging down the shaft. He hung over it, with one foot on the edge
and his hand on an iron bar, and looked at the black hole with horror
as he braced himself for the effort to swing his body back. There was
some strain upon his right arm, because his right knee was bent and his
other leg dangled over the shaft. His hold on the ironwork had saved
him and he must use it to regain the passage.
Next moment a hand fastened on his wrist and he thought Walters had
come to his help. But the fellow was stupid; he ought to have seized
his shoulder. Then the sweat ran down his face as he guessed the
truth. Walters had not come to help; he meant to throw him down the
shaft.
He set his teeth and felt the veins on his forehead swell with the
effort he made. He was in horrible danger and must fight for his life.
Walters was trying to pull his hand off the bar, but he resolved that
if the fellow succeeded, he should go down the shaft with him. But
although his situation was desperate, he did not mean to fall.
Then Walters' fingers slipped away, and something jarred Lawrence's
knuckles as he got a firmer hold. The brute had struck him with a
pistol butt and the pain was sharp, but he did not let go. Though his
muscles were badly strained and his brain struggled with numbing
horror, he could think. Walters could have made him loose his grasp
had he used his knife, but the thing must look like an accident and
there must be no cut to show. The fellow had set a cunning trap for
him, but he might escape yet.
Then he thought he heard steps, but his hearing was dull, for there was
a sound like bells in his ears and the hand fastened on his wrist
again. He arched his back to ease the strain on his arm and wondered
vaguely how long he could hold on. Afterwards, he calculated that he
had hung over the shaft for about a minute.
Suddenly his antagonist's grasp slackened and his hand was loose.
There were running steps; somebody seized his arm and pulled him
strongly back. As he staggered across the passage he heard a heavy
blow. Walters, reeling past, struck the wall and leaned against it
with blood on his white face. He put his hand into his pocket, but a
man sprang forward and grappled with him.
They lurched away from the wall and fell down the stairs. Another man
ran down after them, and Lawrence, who felt very limp, followed
awkwardly. There were lights on the next landing and he saw the
struggling men strike the banisters and stop. One had his hand loose
and held a pistol; his tense, savage face was uppermost. The man who
had gone down after them stooped and struck him with his fist. The
struggle stopped, and Lawrence sat down on the steps and tried to pull
himself together. He knew now how his illness had weakened him.
Then Foster came up the stairs, very hot and breathless, with his
jacket torn, and stopping beside Lawrence, forced a smile.
"It's lucky I got here when I did," he said. "The brute yonder stopped
me coming yesterday."
Foster did not remember his reply, but he got up and went down to where
Walters lay unconscious. As he reached the spot the hotel manager and
a waiter arrived.
"What's the matter? Is he dead?" the manager asked.
"I don't know," said Foster coolly. "It will save the police some
trouble if he is."
"But I want to know what's happened,"
Foster indicated a pistol lying on the steps. "That's his; he tried to
use it. I'll tell you about the thing later. In the meantime, you can
take him to his room and telegraph for the police." He paused and
beckoned Pete. "Go with them and don't lose sight of him until I come.
He'll probably come round soon."
"Weel," said Pete dryly, "I'm thinking he'll no' be verra sensible for
a while yet, but I'll see he doesna' get away."
He and the waiter picked up Walters, and Foster turned to Lawrence.
"Now I'd better wash and straighten myself up. Perhaps you can lend me
a jacket."
Lawrence laughed, a rather strained laugh. "Certainly; come along.
You're a curious combination, partner. I've called you romantic, but
you're not a sentimentalist when you get into action."