And then the legs moved. He heard heavy footsteps go as far as the edge of the path, and then the whispering in the grass again.
He made himself count, slowly, to fifteen—and the sweat broke out on him again. He heard a sound from above just as he began to squirm through the bolt-hole—a man’s footsteps on the boards and the tones of a man’s voice saying words he could not catch. He stopped moving to listen—and then forced himself to move again.
He came out of the bolt-hole and stayed upon hands and knees in the shadow of the bush in front of it. He listened for Carson and could not hear him. He stood upright and straightened himself motionless against the dark wall.
He wondered where Carson was. He tried to figure speed and distance in his mind, and thought that by now the man must be behind the house, and about half-way around it. He tried to see into the darkness of the shadow of the firs, but it was impenetrable as velvet.
And then he heard something. But it was not Carson It was the other man’s voice, and it came clearly through the mouldering shutter to the right of his head. It was a thick voice and in its talk had a curious, hesitating demi-lisp which only occurred in certain words. It said:
“Gee! It’s tough to thee you there like that, Missie. . . . Thure you wouldn’t like that water?”
Otto began to tremble again. He waited for Clare’s answer and it did not come.
Then he heard footsteps upon the wooden floor again. Just two of them.
“Nice little ladies like you,” said the voice, “they thouldn’t get in jams like this.”
Clare spoke then. She said: “Go away!” and then seemed to swallow further speech: it was as if the words had been forced from her without volition.
And without volition Otto’s hand pulled the Lüger from his pocket—and his mind only just in time shouted that he must not shoot! He must not shoot! He must do this that he had to do in the only way it could be done.
And the voice came again.
“That won’t leave a scar,” it said. “It’s just sorta like blithters mostly. . . .”
And then it said:
“You thure look cute! Built like Mith America!”
Otto shook from head to foot, like a man in ague. He thought he heard Carson’s footsteps—but it was his heart he had heard.
No sound came from Clare.
“I’d more like to of throked you like this ’n used that seegar,” said the voice. “When the boss first looked outa the car and theen you on the road there, I said to myself there’s a real cute little lady! An’ when I found out we’re in luck and you was part of the party we’re looking for, I thought to methelf what a shame! . . .”
No sound came from Clare.
But from the other side of the house, from the beginning of the beaten path, there did come now the sound of a heavy tread. Otto’s body grew still. He was suddenly cold, his skin like ice, and he shivered once and turned the pistol in his hand until he gripped it by its long barrel.
Pressed close against the wall, he began to edge along it towards the corner which the footsteps of Carson were approaching.
Carson came around the corner. He loomed huge and dark in the bright patch of moonlight which was here. On his great round head was a hat of soft felt—and it deadened the sound of the blow which came down upon his skull with such a frightful explosion of force that through the metal and up his arm to his shoulder Otto actually felt the caving of the bone.
The giant man fell straight, like a tree—and Otto caught the body in his arms before it thudded to the ground. And he dragged it, almost running despite its tremendous weight, into the shadow of the fir trees, where they jutted out towards the corner of the house.
He had taken off his shoes. Without sound he had opened the door at the side of the house, and without sound he had moved slowly through the darkness of the house, and now he could see a spreading white beam of light within the hall.
The man sat upon the corner of the square oak table with his back to the passageway which Otto had used. There was a gun upon the table near him, and a flash-light propped upon the cumbrous hat-stand near the door was shedding the light. His back was between Otto and the chair into which Clare was bound, and he was leaning forward towards Clare.
Otto could not see Clare. He could only see her arms, tied motionless to the arms and back of the chair. He looked down at his right hand. It held the Lüger again, by its barrel. He thrust it back into his pocket. He came out a little from the shelter of the passageway and set himself for a spring. He felt like light, sure steel in every part of him.
“Now you don’t want to be so thnooty,” complained the lisping voice. “Ithn’t it better . . .”
His speech died in a choking sound which in its turn died instantly to silence. An iron weight, which was Otto’s knee, had struck him in the back; and two iron claws, which were Otto’s hands, were about his throat. . . .
A little cry came from Clare. She stared with open, joyous eyes.
There was a scuffling, bumping sound as the feet of her guard struck the floor, and then a crash as his body was lifted into the air by the neck and slammed down upon the table.
She stared still, but her eyes grew wide with horror—and then she closed them.
Under Otto’s hands, the twitching body swelled suddenly and grew limp. He took his hands from the throat and picked the body up in his arms and went into the darkness of the further passage and came back in a moment without a burden.
He knelt by her chair and touched her with gentle hands and felt the wrenching at his bowels again as he saw what they had done to her. He put his head upon her knees. He said, almost sobbing:
“I could not come before! I could not come before!”
He raised his head and saw that she was looking down at him with eyes which first were wide and ineffably tender, and then began slowly to smile. And then the smile touched her mouth as well and she spoke. She said:
“Darling! When do I get to be untied?”
He cut the cord which tied her, and chafed her ankles and her wrists and she tried to pull the torn edges of her blouse together and winced at the pain. She stood up and went slowly to a dark corner and stooped and picked up from the floor a coat which was of yellow-green checks upon a pinkish background. She said:
“Atrocious isn’t the word!” and then, without warning, crumpled and fell into the chair once more and covered her face with her hands.
He knelt beside her again He said:
“Clare! Clare! We are going to win—and it is because of your braveness! He is coming back—and if it is I who win over him, we have won everything. . . .”
He said: “Clare: listen to me! There is a plane—and if . . .”
He leapt to his feet. He had heard the faint single note of a horn. He said:
“Go out of here! Go to the cellar! Do you hear! Go quickly!”
She raised her head and looked at him through welling tears. She saw his face and got to her feet and went without a word. He passed her in the passageway and pulled out the concealing chair and opened the door.
“Pull the chair back,” he said. “And bolt the door.”
He was gone.
He was outside, at the corner of the house. He ran to the centre and stood at the edge of the shadow and pulled from his pocket the flashlight he had taken from Carson’s body and faced the road and the sound of the horn and pressed the flashlight in a long, single beam.