Was he himself made of the same stuff? Would Tod Moran fail at the crisis, when the supreme moment came? Would he dissolve like a mist, too? Well, he didn't know. He'd be prepared, at least; with him there would be no wavering doubt.
He sighed as he turned into the road and faced the hills far ahead. Over the pools of the marsh, the air quivered with insects. The mosquitoes would be out in swarms that night. Well, let them bite. He and Neil would soon be off for Marseilles. Yes, he'd get Neil out, even though Swickard was there, and Jules, and that vixen Therese. They were doping his brother, doping him as he had heard the boarding-house masters did when they started a man on the shanghai passage. Let them watch out! Tod Moran was on to their tricks. He'd show them. That very night. ... At midnight!
CHAPTER V
ESCAPE
ADRIFT off a strange coast in a rented skiff, Tod shipped his oars and let his gaze run over the water to the illumined windows of the Villa Paradis. It was after eleven. He hoped he and Neil would be out of the grounds before the moon rose; for even now it was not too dark. Stars danced on the surface of the sea, and when he jabbed them with his hand they rippled away in fragments. The great lighthouse on the Cap d'Antibes shimmered faintly on the water. On the other oar, the myriad lights of Nice curved round the shore against the deep gloom of the Maritime Alps.
Presently, one by one the lamps in the lower floor of the villa were extinguished; a moment later two appeared on the second floor. These soon went out, and the house was wrapped in profound darkness. Still he waited; he wanted to be certain that Swick-ard and the caretakers were sound asleep. A moist coolness touched his neck, and looking round, he saw that a long low sheet of fog was creeping in from sea. It would soon be about him, blotting out all sense of direction. As in haste he put the oars into the row-locks, determining to land at the slip of beach and wait there, he beheld a lamp shine suddenly from a window facing him. He gave a little start. It was the window above the kitchen door. Neil was ready then, waiting. To-night, Tod told himself, his brother had no doubt refused the food. He turned the boat and saw over his shoulder that the house was again in darkness. At the same moment, there reached his ears, clear yet distant, the sound of a clock striking the hours. He counted the strokes. Midnight.
The fog began to close about him as the stem of the skiff whispered on the sand. He beached the boat and reached for the ladder which lay lengthwise in it. He had rented them both at a fishing village two miles down the shore. It had taken all his francs, for the shrewd fisherman had insisted upon security until the boat was returned. He'd have to return both safely or he and Neil would never reach Marseilles.
He lifted the ladder and carried it to the cliff which soared upward to the grounds of the villa. A narrow path could be distinguished up the side, and with the ladder dragging on one end, he slowly ascended. At the top he hesitated. Already the mist had obscured the house.
Determined to reconnoitre before he brought the ladder to the kitchen door, he went forward step by step. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils. The weeds, heavy with moisture, brushed his legs. He felt the dampness through his thin shoes. Olive trees hung down above him; branches scraped his face. He brushed them aside and finally came to a clearing between a latticed summerhouse and the villa. He listened intently. Over the grounds brooded the profound silence of sleeping things. An occasional dripping from the trees told him that the mist was thickening.
He suddenly remembered stories of men who had been shot as they climbed into houses at night. He remembered a case of a man sentenced to years in prison though he had only been in search of food. It was funny how you thought of these things just at the time you shouldn't! Strange, too, how your courage vanished with the sun. With his heartbeats loud in his ears, he gazed up at the dim outline of the dwelling. After midnight. Surely the inmates were lost in their first sound slumber.
He spun about and returned with the ladder. With infinite caution he carried it, heavy and awkward, toward the rear of the house. A little esplanade was passed at one side; then the kitchen door detached itself from the gloom. To get the ladder up to the stones of the window ledge without any noise—that was his problem. He rested the ladder on the step, wiped his sleeve across his brow, and pushed back his cap. He lifted the ladder carefully and walked his hands down the rungs. The end swayed precariously in the air.
With his arms outstretched, he stepped backward.
He stumbled. In a terrified instant he knew that he had lost his hold.
The ladder crashed down the uneven stones, thudded to the ground. The stillness was shattered by the noise.
Had Jules heard? Or Mr. Swickard—or Madame Therese? He mustn't let himself get nervous. It hadn't been such a loud sound. He'd better be quick, though. He lifted the ladder again. This time it grated softly on the window ledge directly over the door. He looked up. Neil should be ready now. Why didn't he come down?
No movement from above, however. What was the matter with Neil? He surely must be waiting at the window. He ought to be left behind; it would serve him right. Tod started up the rungs.
Near the top he paused. His head was almost even with the sill. The window was closed. He tapped softly on the pane. With his heart jumping in his throat he saw the sash slowly rise.
Neil leaned out. "Careful," he warned in a whisper. "Someone just went past my door—and down the stairs." His hand moved convulsively on the sill. "You made an awful noise. I think Jules heard. He sleeps next door. One second!"
Tod muttered to himself. Leave it to Neil to make a fuss. Just like him. He was frightened, that was the reason. The place had got on his nerves. Thank heavens, he himself hadn't.
An abrupt click from below sent him flat against the rungs. He stared downward. With panic-stricken eyes he discerned the screen door opening inch by inch. He felt himself go pale. The sweat started out on the palms of his hands. Jules!
At the same instant a window to his left slid noisily up. A head emerged. A woman's voice let loose a stream of invective into the night.
"Therese!" Neil was at the window again.
"Quick!" cried Tod. "Come out."
He was already sliding down the ladder. A low laugh of satisfaction brought him to a halt. The figure of Jules stood waiting below. Tod saw a knife glistening in his hand. Without thinking, he ran up the rungs once more. Even as Neil grasped his arms, Jules had kicked the ladder from under him. He struggled over the sill. He was in Neil's room, locked in, and below, Jules, no doubt, was snarling gleefully in approval.
"The door!" his brother whispered. "The lock isn't strong."
As Tod rose, he heard Neil drive a chair against the knob. Once—twice—the blows echoed through the house. The knob rattled to the floor. The door stuck. Neil beat on it madly, kicked it with his foot. The lock gave way. The door swung back and the hall lay dark before them.
"This way." Neil tossed the words over his shoulder. Grasping Tod's hand he started through the encompassing blackness. A door to one side opened and a lamp gleamed in the hand of Madame Therese. Tod glimpsed her angry lips shadowed with their line of moustache. He heard her cry out. As she raised a hand, a revolver flashed in the lamplight.
Neil, swooping, flung her arm upward. A shot cracked out, detonated through the hallway. The woman pitched backward; she screamed. The pistol rattled to the floor, and the light flashed out.