He became aware of an oppressive, sickly sweet perfume. He saw a long, dead wall upon which some kind of creeper grew, despite the wintry season, bearing small yellow flowers. Heavy of limb, it climbed almost to the eaves of this wing of Rowan House.
One dark window he saw, high above his head, marked it, but knew that it could only be reached by means of a ladder. He pressed on.
In all directions vegetation hemmed the place in; until, through a chink in heavy curtains drawn behind a French window having small leaded panes, a spear of light shot across the damp gravel path, revealing many weeds, and was lost in shadowy shrubbery. Sterling crept forward cautiously, step by step, until at last he could peer into the room to which this French window belonged.
He found himself looking into a sort of small library. At first, all that he could see was shelf upon shelf laden with faded, well-worn volumes. Cautiously, he moved nearer to the pane, and now was able to enlarge his field of vision.
Intensely he was excited, so excited that he distrusted himself. He was breathing rapidly.
He saw more bookshelves, and, craning his neck still further, saw a floor plainly carpeted. There was little furniture in the place. He could not see the source of the illumination: he could see books, books, books: one or two Oriental ornaments; a coffee table with an open volume upon it; and a number of cushions.
A shadow fell across the carpet.
Sterling watched intently, fists clenched.
The shadow grew more dense, shortened—and then the person who occasioned it walked slowly into view, head lowered in the act of reading a small, very faded-looking volume.
It was Fleurette—his Fleurette! Petrie’s daughter!
Sterling experienced a wave of exultation which swept everything else from his mind. Nayland Smith’s instructions were forgotten—the chief purpose of the expedition, the apprehension of Dr. Fu Manchu, was forgotten . . . Fleurette was alive—only a few panes of glass separated them.
And how beautiful she was!
The hidden light, gleaming upon her wonderful hair, made it glow and shimmer in living loveliness. She was so slender— so divinely graceful; that rarest creation of nature, as the Chinese doctor had once declared, a perfect woman.
He rapped urgently upon the window.
Fleurette turned. The book dropped from her hand. Her eyes, opened widely, were fixed upon the gap in the curtains.
Sterling’s heart was beating wildly as he pressed his face upon the glass. Surely in the light shining out from the room she could see him?
But she stood motionless, startled, gazing, but giving no sign.
“Fleurette!” Sterling spoke in a low voice, yet loudly enough for the girl in the room to hear him. “It’s Alan. Open the window, darling—open the window!”
But she gave no sign.
“Fleurette! Can you hear me? It’s Alan. Open the window.”
He had found the handle. The strangeness of his reception by this girl who only a few days before had lain trembling in his arms because three or four weeks of separation pended, was damping that glad exultation, chilling the hot blood dancing through his veins.
The window was locked, as he had assumed it would be. He could see the key inside.
“Fleurette, darling! For God’s sake open the window. Let me in. Don’t you understand? It’s Alan! It’s Alan!”
Fleurette shook her head, and turning, walked across the room.
Surely she had recognized him? In spite of his rough dress, could Fleurette, his Fleurette, fail to recognize him?
Pressing his face against the glass, Sterling, astounded, saw her take up a pencil and a writing-block from a dimly seen bureau. He could endure no more. Premature action might jeopardize the success of Nayland Smith’s plans, but there were definite limits to Sterling’s powers of endurance. These had been reached.
Stepping back a pace he raised his right foot, and crashed the heel of his shoe through the small leaded pane of glass just above the lock of the French window.
He had expected an echoing crash; in point of fact the sound made was staccato and oddly muffled. He paused for a second to listen . . . Somewhere in the distance a train whistle shrieked.
Thrusting his hand through the jagged opening, he turned the key, pushed the French window open and stepped into the room. Three swift strides and he had Fleurette in his arms.
She had turned at the crash of his entrance—eyes widely opened, and a look of fear upon her beautiful face.
“My darling, my darling!”—he crushed her against him and kissed her breathlessly. “What has happened? Where have you been? Above all, why didn’t you open the window?”
Fleurette’s eyes seemed to be looking through him—beyond him—at some far distant object. She made a grimace of pain— good God! Of contempt. Leaning back, continuing to look not at him, but through him, and wrenching one arm free, she brushed it across her lips as if something loathsome had touched them!
Sterling released her.
He had read of one’s heart growing cold, but was not aware that such a phenomenon could actually occur. Where there had been mystery—there was mystery no more. Fleurette’s love for him was dead. Something had killed it.
With a tiny handkerchief she was wiping her lips, watching him, watching him all the time. There was absolute silence in the room, and absolute silence outside. He found time to wonder if Gallaho had heard the crash, if those inside the house had heard it.
But this thought was a mere undercurrent.
All of him that was real, all of him that lived, was concentrated upon Fleurette. And now, looking him up and down, with a glance of such scornful anger as he had never sustained in his life from man or woman:
“You are just a common blackguard, then?” she said, in that musical voice which he adored, and yet again raised the fragment of cambric to her lips. “I hate you for this.”
“Fleurette, darling!”
His own voice was flat and toneless.
“If you ever had a right to call me Fleurette, you have that right no longer.”
Her scorn was like a lash. Alan Sterling writhed under it. But although she stared straightly at him, he could not arrest that strange, far-away gaze. She turned suddenly, and walked towards the bureau. Over her shoulder:
“Get out!” she said. “I am going to call the servants, but I will give you this chance.”
“Fleurette, dear!” he extended his arms distractedly. “My darling! What has happened? what wrong have I done?”
He followed her, but she turned and waved him away, fiercely.
“Leave me alone!” she cried, her eyes flashing murderously. “If you touch me again, you will regret it.”
She picked up a pencil and began to write.
Sterling, quivering in muscle and nerve, stood close beside her. Whoever had interfered between himself and Fleurette, upon one point he was determined. She should not remain here, in this house. Explanations could come later. But he proposed to pick her up, regardless of protests, and carry her out to the police car. Slowly he moved nearer, making up his mind just how he should seize her. There was a silk-shaded lamp on the bureau and in its light he was able quite clearly to read the words which Fleurette was writing upon the pad.
As he read, he stood stock still, touched by a sort of supernatural horror. This is what he read:-
“Alan darling. If you touch me I shall try to kill you. If I speak to you I shall tell you I hate you. But I can write my real thoughts. Save me, darling! Save me! ...”