"I can’t move, either," she whispered back. "We’ll have to wait." She saw his agonized expression and added, " ‘Chin up,’ you said. But I wish I could touch you." The fingers of her right hand trembled slightly, found some traction on the polished table top, and began a slow and painful progress across the inches that separated them.
Randall found that he could move his own fingers a little; he started his left hand on its way to join hers, a half inch at a time, his arm a dead weight against the movement, At last they touched and her and crept into his, pressing it faintly. She smiled.
Stoles rapped loudly on the table. "This little scene is very touching," he said in sympathetic tones, "but there is business to attend to. We must decide the best thing to do with them."
"Hadn’t we better eliminate them entirely?" suggested the one who had jabbed Cynthia in the ribs.
"That would be a pleasure," Stoles conceded, "but we must remember that these two are merely an incident in our plans for ... for Mr. Randall’s client. He is the one who must be destroyed!"
"I don’t see—"
"Of course you don’t see and that is why I am chairman. Our immediate purpose must be to immobilize these two in a fashion which will cause no suspicion on his part. The question is merely one of method and of the selection of the subject."
Mr. Parker spoke up. "It would be very amusing," he suggested, "to return them as they are. They would starve slowly, unable to answer the door, unable to answer the telephone, helpless."
"So it would be," Stoles said approvingly. "That is about the caliber of suggestion I expected from you. Suppose he attempted to see them, found them so. Do you think he would not understand their story? No, it must be something which seals their tongues. I intend to send them back with one of them—dead-alive!"
The whole business was so preposterous, so utterly unlikely, that Randall had been telling himself that it could not be real. He was in the clutches of a nightmare; if he could just manage to wake up, everything would be all right. The business of not being able to move—he had experienced that before in dreams. Presently you woke up from it and found that the covers had become wound around you, or you had been sleeping with both hands under your head. He tried biting his tongue so that the pain might wake him, but it did no good.
Stoles’ last words brought his attention sharply to what was going on around him, not because he understood them—they meant very little to him, though they were fraught with horror—but because of the stir of approval and anticipation which went around the table.
The pressure of Cynthia’s hand in his increased faintly. "What are they going to do, Teddy?" she whispered.
"I don’t know, darling."
"The man, of course," Parker commented.
Stoles looked at him. Randall had a feeling that Stoles had intended the—whatever it was that was coming!—for the man, for him, until Parker had suggested it. But Stoles answered, "I’m always grateful for your advice. It makes it so easy to know just what one should do." Turning to the others he said, "Prepare the woman."
"Now," thought Randall. "It’s got to be now." Summoning all the will he possessed he attempted to raise himself up from the table—rise up and fight!
He might just as well not have made the effort.
He let his head sink back, exhausted by the effort. "It’s no use, kid," he said miserably.
Cynthia looked at him. If she felt any fear, it was masked by the concern she showed for him. "Chin up, Brain," she answered with the mere suggestion of increased pressure of her hand in his.
Printemps stood up and leaned over her. "This is properly Potiphar’s job," he objected.
"He left a prepared bottle," Stoles answered. "You have it, Mr. Phipps?"
Phipps answered by reaching into his brief case and producing it. At a nod from Stoles he passed it over; Printemps accepted it. "The wax?" he added.
"Here you are," Phipps acknowledged, dipping into his brief case again.
"Thank you, sir. Now, if someone will get that out of the way"—indicating Randall as he poke—"we seem to be ready." Half a dozen savagely willing hands manhandled Randall to the extreme far edge of the table; Printemps bent over Cynthia, bottle in hand.
"One moment," Stoles interrupted. "I want them both to understand what is happening and why. Mrs. Randall," he continued, bowing gallantly, "in our short interview earlier I believe I made you understand that the Sons of the Bird will brook no interference from such as you two. You understood that, did you not?"
"I understood you," she answered. But her eyes were defiant.
"Good. Be it understood that it is our wish that your husband have nothing more to do with ... a certain party. In order to insure that result we are about to split you into two parts. The part that keeps you going, that which you rather amusingly call the soul, we will squeeze into this bottle and keep. As for the rest, well, your husband may have that to keep with him, as a reminder that the Sons of the Birds have you in pawn. You understand me?"
She ignored the question. Randall tried to answer, found that his throat was misbehaving again.
"Listen to me, Mrs. Randall; if you are ever to see your husband again it is imperative that he obey us. He must not, on pain of your death, see his client again. Under the same penalty he must hold his tongue concerning us and all that has transpired. If he does not—well, we will make your death very interesting, I assure you."
Randall tried to cry out that he would promise anything they wanted to spare her, but his voice was still silenced—apparently Stoles wanted to hear from Cynthia first. She shook her head. "He’ll do as he thinks wise."
Stoles smiled. "Fine," he said. "That was the answer I wanted. You, Mr. Randall—do you promise?"
He wanted to agree, he was about to agree—but Cynthia was saying, "No!" with her eyes. From her expression he knew that her speech was now being blocked. Inside his head, clear as speech, he seemed to hear her say, "It’s a trick, Brain. Don’t promise!"
He kept quiet.
Phipps dug a thumb into his eye. "Answer when you are spoken to!"
He had to squint the injured eye in order to see Cynthia, but her expression still approved; he kept his mouth shut.
Presently Stoles said, "Never mind. Get on with it, gentlemen."
Printemps stuck the bottle under Cynthia’s nose, held it against her left nostril. "Now!" he directed. Another of them pressed down on her short ribs vigorously, so that her breath was expelled suddenly. She grunted.
"Teddy," she said, "they’re pulling me apar—Ugh!"
The process had been repeated with the bottle at the other nostril. Randall felt the soft warm hand in his suddenly relax. Printemps held up the bottle with his thumb over its top. "Let’s have the wax," he said briskly. Having sealed it he passed it over to Phipps.
Stoles jerked a thumb toward the big mirror. "Put them back," he directed.
Phipps superintended the passing of Cynthia back through the glass, then turned to Stoles. "Couldn’t we give him something to make him remember us?" he inquired.
"Help yourself," Stoles answered indifferently, as he stood up to go, "but try not to leave any permanent marks."
"Fine!" Phipps smiled, and hit Randall a backhanded swipe that loosened his teeth. "We’ll be careful!"
He remained conscious through a considerable portion of it, though, naturally, he had no way of judging what proportion. He passed out once or twice, only to come to again under the stimulus of till greater pain. It was the novel way Phipps found of holding a man down without marking him which caused him to pass out for the last time.
He was in a small room, every side of which was a mirror—four walls, floor, and ceiling. Endlessly he was repeated in every direction and every image was himself—selves that hated him but from which there was no escape. "Hit him again!" they yelled—he yelled—and struck himself in the teeth with his closed fist. They—he—cackled.