It was then that she remembered the black, plum-shaped ball that Clifford had given her, and, rising, she turned on the light and, taking it from her bag, put it on the table by the side of her bed. The knowledge that somewhere at hand was that strong, quiet man, brought ease to her mind, and presently she found herself sinking into the languor of sleep…
There was somebody in the next room; she found herself sitting up in bed with this conviction, her face damp with fear. There it was again—the soft swish of a body brushing against the thin wall, and a faint grinding sound as though the intruder had moved a table. She knew the table; it was near the bed, a little rickety, bamboo-covered piece of furniture which, with a cheap wardrobe and a lumpy bed, constituted the furniture of the servant’s room.
Stealing out of bed, she turned on the light and tiptoed to the door, listening. There was no sound; it must have been the disordered fancies of a dream.
There was only one possible thing for her to do. She must satisfy herself that the room was empty. Turning the key, she pulled open the door and shrank back with a scream.
Standing square in the doorway was a big, uncouth shape, bare to the waist, his huge arms dangling. She stared for a second into the black slant eyes, and then with a scream reeled back. Before she could understand what had happened, he had leapt at her, one brawny arm encircling her, the other covering her mouth. Struggling frantically she saw over his shoulder another and yet a third man appear. And then, too late, she remembered the bomb. It was impossible to wrench herself free from that steel grip that held her. One of the men whipped off a blanket from the bed, spread it roughly on the floor; the man who held her muttered something, and the third of the Chinamen wound a thick silk handkerchief round and round her mouth. And then the arm about her suddenly relaxed.
She was staring up at the evil face, and saw his mouth open in a queer, hideous grimace, and huge hands wave, as though to shut out some horrible vision. She turned her head in the direction he was staring.
Clifford Lynne was standing in the doorway, hands on hips, and each hand held death.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It seemed to Joan Bray that she had slipped out of the world in fear, and was returning painfully oppressed with a great apprehension. She was in bed, she discovered…Then it was all a terrible dream. But the light was still burning, and a man was standing at the foot of her bed, surveying her gravely. She raised herself on her elbow, her head swimming, and frowned at him.
“Good morning,” said Clifford Lynne lightly. “Your terpsichorean relations are slow travellers.”
The faint glow of dawn whitened the windows, she saw as she turned. Her face was wet; a glass half filled with water stood on the table by the bed.
“Mr Lynne!” She was trying to think. “Where—where–-?” She stared round the room.
“I’m afraid I woke you up, didn’t I?” he asked, ignoring the question. “I’m a clumsy burglar, though it was the easiest thing in the world to get into the room next door. Did you hear me?”
She nodded slowly.
“It was you, then?” she asked jerkily.
He was biting his lower lip thoughtfully, still looking at her.
“I’m hopelessly compromised, I trust you realize that?” he said. “I’ve climbed into your house in the dead of night, I’ve put you to bed, and here are you and I, in the grey dawn! I shudder to think of what Stephen will say or the stoutish Mabel will imagine. As for Letty”—he shrugged his shoulders—“I cannot hope she will extend her well-known charity to me.”
She struggled up into a sitting position, her throbbing head between her hands.
“Do you always make a jest of everything?” she asked, and shuddered as the memory of the night crowded in upon her. “Where are those awful men?”
“They’re not quite so awful as they look,” he said. “Anyway, they’ve gone. They went out of the window, and none of them is seriously hurt—I am glad to say. I already have a sick and stupid coolie on my hands, and I have no desire to turn the Slaters’ Cottage into a convalescent home for the criminal classes of China.”
He drooped his head, listening; his sharp ears had detected the distant whine of a motor-car.
“That sounds like Stephen and the two graces,” he said.
At this she looked up.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, in consternation. “You mustn’t stay here.”
He chuckled softly.
“How like a woman in this crisis to study the proprieties!”
And then most unexpectedly he walked up to her and, laying his hand upon her throbbing head, rumpled her hair.
“Watch me time my effort,” he said, and in an instant was gone.
She could hear the car now, and, getting out of bed, walked to the window, the curtain of which had been pulled aside. Two bright headlamps came into view; they turned into the drive. As they did so, she heard the thud of the front door close and saw Clifford Lynne dart across the drive to the cover of a clump of rhododendrons. Almost before he was out of sight, the car was at the door and Stephen Narth had alighted.
From where she stood she could see the little group: Stephen, his white dress-shirt shining palely, the two girls in their over-rich evening wraps. She could not see his face, but there was something in his attitude which struck the girl as curious; a certain nervous hesitancy in his movements. He did not seem anxious to go into the house. He walked twice round the car, spoke to the chauffeur, and not until she heard the girls’ feet on the stairs did he reluctantly enter the hall.
Letty and Mabel slept on the floor below. She heard Letty’s shrill voice raised in anger and the deeper tone of her elder sister. And then Mr Narth came into the conversation.
“…of course she’s all right,” said Letty, in high-pitched tones. “Don’t be ridiculous, father.”
Joan walked across the room and opened the door.
“Why shouldn’t she be all right?” demanded Mabel. “Stuff and nonsense, father! You’ll only wake her up…how ridiculous!”
Stephen’s heavy feet were on the stairs and Joan closed the door wonderingly. Presently there was a knock at the door, and she opened it.
“Hallo!” said Narth huskily. “All right?”
His face was ghastly white, his lower lip was tremulous, and he had pushed his hands into his pockets that she should not see them shaking.
“Everything all right?” he croaked again.
“Yes, Mr Narth,” she said.
“Nothing wrong, eh?” He thrust his head forward in a strange, bird-like gesture, peering at her. “Everything all right, Joan?”
His voice was so thick, his manner so strange, that she could only imagine he had been drinking. Yet there was no other evidence of indulgence.
“Nobody disturbed you? That’s good…girls woke you up, I suppose? Goodnight, Joan.”
He stumbled unsteadily down the stairs and she closed the door, wondering.
She had further cause for wonder when she came down to a solitary breakfast later in the morning, and learnt for the first time that the butler had been out at dinner on the previous night. Mr Narth had telephoned him, asking him to bring a book to town. Why Mr Narth should want a book, when the evening had been fully occupied in the chaperonage of his daughters, only he could have explained, and then to nobody’s satisfaction.
He came down to breakfast at eleven, a yellow, nervous, irritable man, who looked as if he had not slept.
“Girls not up, eh?” He had a quick, staccato method of talking on such occasions as these, and usually he rounded off a bad night with an exhibition of bad temper; but although she quite expected a display of irritation, he was singularly inoffensive.