_In the Dark_
Wilson made his way into the hall and peered down the dark stairs. He
listened; all was silent. A dozen perfectly simple accidents might
have caused the sound the three had heard; and yet, although he had
not made up his mind that the stranger's whole story was not the
fabric of delirium, he had an uncomfortable feeling that someone
really was below. Neither seeing nor hearing, he knew by some sixth
sense that another human being stood within a few yards of him
waiting. Who that human being was, what he wished, what he was willing
to venture was a mystery. Sorez had spoken of the priest--the man who
had stabbed him--but it seemed scarcely probable that after such an
act as that a man would break into his victim's house, where the
chances were that he was guarded, and make a second attempt. Then he
recalled that Sorez was apparently living alone here and that
doubtless this was known to the mysterious priest. If the golden image
were the object of his attack, truly it must have some extraordinary
value outside its own intrinsic worth. If of solid gold it could be
worth but a few hundred dollars. It must, then, be of value because
of such power as it had exercised over the girl.
There was not so much as a creak on the floor below, and still his
conviction remained that someone stood there gazing up as he was
staring down. If only the house were lighted! To go back and get the
candle would be to make a target of himself for anyone determined in
his mission, but he must solve this mystery. The girl expected it of
him and he was ready to sacrifice his life rather than to stand poorly
in her eyes. He paused at this thought. Until it came to him at that
moment, in that form, he had not realized anything of the sort. He had
not realized that she was any more to him now than she had ever
been--yet she had impelled him to do an unusual thing from the first.
Yes, he had done for her what he would have done for no other living
woman. He had helped her out of the clutches of the law, he had been
willing to strike down an officer if it had been necessary, he had
broken into a house for her, and now he was willing to risk his life.
The thought brought him joy. He smiled, standing there in the dark at
the head of the stairs, that he had in life this new impulse--this new
propelling force. Then he slid his foot forward and stepped down the
first stair.
He still had strongly that sense of being watched, but there was no
movement below to indicate that this was anything more than a fancy.
Not a sound came from the room he had just left. Evidently the girl
was waiting breathlessly for his return. He must delay no longer. He
moved on, planning to try the front door and then to examine the
window by which he himself had entered. These were the only two
possible entrances to the house; the other windows were beyond the
reach of anyone without a ladder and were tightly boarded in addition.
He found the front door fast locked. It had a patent lock so that the
chance of anyone having opened and closed it again was slight. He
breathed more easily.
Groping along the hallway he was vividly reminded of the time a few
hours past when the girl had placed her hand within his. It seemed to
him that he now felt the warmth of it--thrilled to the velvet softness
of it--more than he had at the time. He was full of illusions, excited
by all the unusual happenings, and now, as he felt his way along the
dark passage, he could have sworn that her fingers still rested upon
his. It made him restless to get back to her. He should not have left
her behind alone and unprotected. It was very possible that this swoon
of Sorez' was but a ruse. He must hurry on about his investigation. He
descended to the lower floor and groped to the laundry. It was still
dark; the earth would not be lighted for another hour. He neither
heard nor saw anything here. But when he reached the window by which
he himself had entered but which he had closed behind him, he gave a
start--it was wide open. It told him of another's presence in this
house as plainly as if he had seen the person. There was of course
one chance in a hundred that the intruder had become frightened and
taken to his heels. Wilson turned back with fresh fear for the girl
whom he had been forced to leave behind unprotected. If it was true,
as the terrified Sorez had feared, that the priest, whoever this
mysterious and unscrupulous person might be, had returned to the
assault, there certainly was good cause to fear for the safety of the
girl. A man so fanatically inspired as to be willing to commit murder
for the sake of an idol must be half mad. The danger was that the
girl, in the belief which quite evidently now possessed her--that this
golden thing held the key to her father's whereabouts--might attempt
to protect or conceal it. He stumbled up the dark stairs and fell flat
against the door. It was closed. He tried the knob; the door was
locked. For a moment Wilson could not believe. It was as though in a
second he had found himself thrust utterly out of the house. His first
suspicion flew to Sorez, but he put this from his mind instantly.
There was no acting possible in that man's condition; he was too weak
to get down the stairs. But this was no common thief who had done
this, for a thief, once realizing a household is awakened, thinks of
nothing further but flight. It must then be no other than the priest
returned to the quest of his idol.
Wilson threw his weight against the door, but this was no garden gate
to give before such blows. At the end of a half dozen attempts, he
paused, bruised and dizzy. It seemed impossible to force the bolt.
Yet no sooner had he reached this conclusion than the necessity
became compelling; the bolt _must_ be forced. At such moments one's
emotions are so intensified that, if there be any hidden passion, it
is instantly brought to light. With the impelling need of reaching the
girl's side--a frantic need out of proportion to any normal
relationship between them--Wilson realized partly the instinct which
had governed him from the moment he had first caught sight of her
features in the rain. If at this stage it could not properly be called
love, it was at least an obsessing passion with all love's attributes.
As he paused there in blinding fury at being baffled by this senseless
wooden door, he saw her as he had seen the faces between the stars,
looking down at him tenderly and trustingly. A lump rose to his throat
and his heart grew big within him. There was nothing now--no motive,
no ambition, no influence--which could ever control him until after
this new great need was satisfied. All this came over him in a
flash--he saw as one sees an entire landscape by a single stroke of
lightning. Then he faced the door once again.
The simple accident of the muzzle of his revolver striking against the
door knob furnished Wilson the inspiration for his next attack. He
examined the cylinder and found that four cartridges remained. These
were all. Each one of them was precious and would be doubly so once he
was beyond this barrier. He thrust the muzzle of the revolver into the
lock and fired. The bullet ripped and tore and splintered. Again he
placed his shoulder to the door and pushed. It gave a trifle, but
still held. He must sacrifice another cartridge. He shot again and
this time, as he threw his body full against the bolt, it gave. He
fell in atop the debris, but instantly sprang to his feet and stumbled
along the hall to the stairway. He mounted this three steps at a time.
At the door to the study he was again checked--there was no light
within and no voice to greet him. He called her name; the ensuing
silence was ghastly in its suggestiveness. He started through the
door, but a slight rustling or creak caused him to dart back, and a
knife in the hand of some unknown assailant missed him by a margin so
slight that his sleeve was ripped from elbow to wrist.
With cocked revolver Wilson waited for the rush which he expected to
follow immediately. Save that the curtains before him swayed slightly,
there was nothing to show that he was not the only human being in the
house. Sorez might still be within unconscious, but what of the girl?
He called her name. There was no reply. He dashed through the
curtains--for the sixteenth of a second felt the sting of a heavy blow
on his scalp, and then fell forward, the world swirling into a black
pit at his feet.
When Wilson came to himself he realized that he was in some sort of
vehicle. The morning light had come at last--a cold, luminous gray
wash scarcely yet of sufficient intensity to do more than outline the
world. He attempted to rise, but fell back weakly. He felt his neck
and the collar of the luxurious bath robe he still wore to be wet. It
was a sticky sort of dampness. He moved his hand up farther and found
his hair to be matted. His fingers came in contact with raw flesh,
causing him to draw them back quickly. The carriage jounced over the
roadbed as though the horses were moving at a gallop. For a few
moments he was unable to associate himself with the past at all; it
was as though he had come upon himself in this situation as upon a
stranger. The driver without the closed carriage seemed bent upon some
definite enough errand, turning corners, galloping up this street and
across that. He tried to make the fellow hear him, but above the
rattling noise this was impossible. There seemed to be nothing to do
but to lie there until the end of the journey, wherever that might
be.
* * * * *
He lay back and tried to delve into the past. The first connecting
link seemed years ago,--he was running away from something, her hand
within his. The girl--yes, he remembered now, but still very
indistinctly. But soon with a great influx of joy he recalled that
moment at the door when he had realized what she meant to him, then
the blind pounding at the door, then the run upstairs and--this.
He struggled to his elbow. He must get back to her. How had he come
here? Where was he being taken? He was not able to think very clearly
and so found it difficult to devise any plan of action, but the
necessity drove him on as it had in the face of the locked door. He
must stop the carriage and--but even as he was exerting himself in a
struggle to make himself heard, the horses slowed down, turned sharply
and trotted up a driveway to the entrance of a large stone building.
Some sort of an attendant came out, exchanged a few words with the
driver, and then, opening the door, looked in. He reached out his hand
and groped for Wilson's pulse.
"Where am I?" asked Wilson.
"That's all right, old man," replied the attendant in the paternal
tone of those in lesser official positions. "Able to walk, or shall I
get a stretcher?"
"Walk? Of course I can walk. What I want to know is----"
But already the strong arms were beneath his shoulders and half
lifting him from the seat.
"Slowly. Slowly now."
Wilson found himself in a corridor strong with the fumes of ether and
carbolic acid.
"See here," he expostulated, "I didn't want to come here. I----where's
the driver?"
"He went off as soon as you got out."
"But where----"
"Come on. This is the City Hospital and you're hurt. The quicker you
get that scalp of yours sewed up the better."
For a few steps Wilson walked along submissively, his brain still
confused. The thought of her came once again, and he struggled free
from the detaining arm and turned upon the attendant who was leading
him to the accident room.
"I'm going back," he declared. "This is some conspiracy against the
girl. I'll find out what it is--and I'll----"
"The sooner you get that scalp fixed," interrupted the attendant, "the
sooner you'll find the girl."
The details of the next hour were blurred to him. He remembered the
arrival of the brisk young surgeon, remembered his irritated greeting
at sight of him--"Another drunken row, I suppose"--and the sharp fight
he put up against taking ether. He had but one thought in mind--he
must not lose consciousness, for he must get back to the girl. So he
fought until two strong men came in and sat one on his chest and one
on his knees. When he came out of this he was nicely tucked in bed.
They told him that probably he must stay there three or four
days--there was danger of the wound growing septic.
Wilson stared at the pretty nurse a moment and then asked, "I beg your
pardon--how long did you say?"
"Three days anyway, and possibly longer."
"Not over three hours longer," he replied.
She smiled, but shook her head and moved away.
It was broad daylight now. He felt of his head--it was done up in
turban-like bandages. He looked around for his clothes; they were put
away. The problem of getting out looked a difficult one. But he must.
He tried again to think back as to what had happened to him. Who had
placed him in the carriage and given orders to the driver? Had it
been done to get rid of him or out of kindness? Had it been done by
the priest or by Sorez? Above all, what in the meanwhile had become of
his comrade?
When the visiting surgeon came in, Wilson told him quite simply that
he must leave at once.
"Better stay, boy. A day here now may save you a month."
"A day here now might spoil my life."
"A day outside might cost it."
"I'm willing."
"Well, we can't hold you against your will. But think again; you've
received an ugly blow there and it has left you weak."
Wilson shook his head.
"I must get out of here at once, whatever the cost."
The surgeon indifferently signed the order for his release and moved
on. The nurse brought his clothes. His only outside garment was the
long, gold embroidered lounging robe he had thrown on while his own
clothes were drying. He stared at it helplessly. Then he put in on. It
did not matter--nothing mattered but getting back to her as soon as
possible.
A few minutes later the citizens of Boston turned to smile at the
sight of a young man with pale, drawn face hurrying through the
streets wearing a white linen turban and an oriental robe. He saw
nothing of them.