Mr. Parker was equally courteous. "Much the same as yours, Mr. Chairman, I imagine. It’s a pleasant idea, but I am satisfied with the present arrangements."
"I’m sorry to hear it. I like you, Mr. Parker; I had hoped you were ambitious."
"I am patient—like our Ancestor."
"So? Well—back to business. Mr. Randall, I tried before to impress you with the necessity of having nothing to do with—your client. You know the client I mean. What do you think would impress you with the fact that the Sons of the Bird will tolerate no interference with their plans? Speak up—tell me."
Randall had heard little of what had taken place and had understood none of it. His whole being was engrossed with a single terrible thought. When he found he could speak again, it spilled forth. "Where is she?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper. "What have you done with her?"
Stoles gestured impatiently. "Sometimes," he said pettishly, "it is almost impossible to get into communication with one of them—almost no mind at all. Mr. Phipps!"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you please see that the other one is fetched in?"
"Certainly, Mr. Stoles." Phipps gathered up an assistant with his eye; the two left the room to return shortly with a burden which they dumped casually on the table beside Randall. It was Cynthia.
The surge of relief was almost more than he could stand. It roared through him, choking him, deafening him, blinding him with tears, and leaving him nothing with which to weigh the present danger of their situation. But gradually the throbbing of his being slowed down enough for him to see that something was wrong; she was quiet. Even if she had been asleep when they carried her in, the rough handling she had received should have been enough to waken her.
His alarm was almost as devastating as his joy had been. "What have you done to her?" he begged. "Is she—"
"No," Stoles answered in disgusted tones, "she is not dead. Control yourself, Mr. Randall." With a wave of his hand he directed his colleagues, "Wake her up."
One of them poked her in the ribs with a forefinger. "Don’t bother to wrap it," he remarked; "I’ll eat it on the way."
Stoles smiled. "Very witty, Mr. Printemps—but I said to wake her up. Don’t keep me waiting."
"Certainly, Mr. Chairman." He slapped her stingingly across the face; Randall felt it on his own face—in his helpless condition it almost unhinged his reason. "In the Name of the Bird—wake up!"
He saw her chest heave under the silk of her nightgown; her eyes fluttered and she said one word, "Teddy?"
"Cyn! Here, darling, here!"
She turned her head toward him and exclaimed, "Teddy!" then added, "I had such a bad dream—Oh!" She had caught sight of them staring greedily at her. She looked slowly around her, wide-eyed and serious, then turned back to Randall. "Teddy—is this still a dream?"
"I’m afraid not, darling. Chin up."
She looked once more at the company, then back to him. "I’m not afraid," she said firmly. "Make your play, Teddy. I won’t faint on you again." Thereafter she kept her eyes on his.
Randall stole a glance at the fat chairman; he was watching them, apparently amused by the sight, and showed no present disposition to interfere. "Cyn," Randall said in an urgent whisper, "they’ve done something to me so I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. So don’t count on me too much. If you get a chance to make a break for it, take it!"
"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.