"It is odd. Still, I should find out if the doctor is about. I hear he was going to drive her into Cannes."

"Oh, was he? I'll look for him."

He discovered Sartorius in his own bedroom, sorting out the contents of his black leather bag.

"Have you seen Miss Rowe, doctor?" he demanded rather abruptly.

With a visible effort the big man tore his attention away from his occupation.

"Miss Rowe?" he repeated vaguely. "Oh, yes, I believe she left the house a little while ago."

"But wasn't she going with you?"

"I offered to drive her, but as I was not ready as soon as she was Captain Holliday gave her a lift instead."

"Holliday!" exclaimed Roger, puzzled. "Are you sure?"

He noticed that the doctor had the air of being slightly bored by his importunities, but he was indifferent, merely determined to get to the bottom of the matter.

"Oh, quite, Mr. Clifford. I helped the Captain transfer her luggage from my car to his, and I saw them start off."

It seemed conclusive enough; there was no question as to her being gone. Roger thanked the doctor briefly and left him, feeling perplexed and exasperated. Why had she sent him that urgent message, only to hurry away before he could possibly get downstairs to see her? Why, for that matter, was she in such a rush to be off that she had accepted Holliday's offer of a lift? Not that she had any reason for disliking Arthur, only the whole affair struck him as decidedly odd, unlike Esther. He resolved to wait a quarter of an hour and then telephone the Pension Martel, which was where he knew she had intended to go: he had heard her say so several days before.

On the telephone the proprietress of the pension informed him that no person of the name of Rowe had arrived, in fact there had been no new arrivals to-day. This did not altogether surprise him, because the pension was some distance away. Esther might not have had sufficient time to reach there. He tried again considerably later, but the answer was the same. She must have changed her mind and gone somewhere else. No doubt she would ring up in a day or two, but he was impatient to find out what had happened, why she had been so anxious to see him; he could not let the matter wait. Somewhat reluctantly he sought out Therese, whom he found in her bedroom surrounded by decorative hat-boxes and mounds of tissue-paper, engaged in trying small black hats with the aid of Aline.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, Therese, but can you tell where Arthur Holliday is staying?"

Her grey eyes regarded him with a look of instant suspicion, but he allayed her fears by adding amicably:

"I only want to ask him where he left Miss Rowe. He drove her down into town just now."

"Oh, did he?" she inquired thoughtfully, "I didn't know. I think he told me he was staying at the Carlton."

"Thanks. That's all I wanted to know."

As he turned on his heel she took a quick step towards him and put both hands on his shoulders.

"Roger, dear, why will you persist in wandering about in this stupid fashion? Why won't you go to bed and stay there till you're better? You know you are running such a frightful risk!"

He shook her off a little impatiently.

"Oh, don't bother about me, Therese. I'm not so very ill, not enough for you to worry about."

He hoped he did not seem rude, but the fact was he felt anxious to get away. He was unpleasantly aware of the black, gimlet eyes of the maid fixed upon him from the background; he knew that both she and Therese were inwardly commenting upon the interest he took in Esther, that they would speak of it the moment he was gone. Since his father's death he had known himself an alien in this house, in spite of Therese's protestations regarding his health. Never mind, he would not remain here much longer.

Back at the telephone he rang through to the Carlton Hotel. Yes, he was told, Captain Holliday was staying there, but he had not been in since the morning. Roger dropped the receiver angrily. There was nothing to do, then, but to wait for Esther to telephone him. She would surely do so soon if what she wished to tell him was really important. What could it have been? He had no idea.

Still, the day passed and no message came. In all likelihood she had decided that the matter could wait after all, but in his present restless mood Roger did not find this explanation satisfactory. Besides, he was unreasonably displeased by the fact that Holliday had given Esther a lift when she left. There was no reason why he shouldn't have done so, yet the fact remained that to Roger the mere suggestion seemed a piece of impudent effrontery. What was the fellow up to? Roger bitterly resented Arthur Holliday. He resented his dashing back post-haste for the funeral, it was too officious. Therese had said during that memorable interview which Esther had interrupted that her lover was gone, that she had sent him away. Yet here he was back again, walking about as if he owned the place, almost before the old man's body was cold. And now he had taken Esther away, no one could say where! It was too much for human endurance.

When at eight o'clock Chalmers came up bringing him some dinner on a tray, Roger questioned him closely. What exactly had Miss Rowe said?

"Only that I was to wake you at once, sir, and tell you wanted to see you—that it was very important."

"How did she seem to you?"

"Why, sir, very excited, as if she was upset about something. She was just coming out of the cloak-room, sir, which made me think perhaps she had been telephoning, but I may be wrong."

Roger pondered this information, but could make nothing of it. He resumed frowningly:

"I suppose you have no idea why she went off so suddenly, have you, Chalmers?"

"Why, no, sir, I was very much surprised myself. Almost as surprised as I was when I heard ..."

He did not finish the sentence, and looked sorry he spoken.

"Go on, Chalmers, what were you about to say?"

"Oh, it was nothing, sir, not of the least consequence," returned the old man, embarrassed. "Only women's gossip, sir, and Frenchwomen's gossip at that."

Roger looked at him keenly.

"Never mind, I must insist on your telling me what it was you heard, if it has the least bearing on Miss Rowe."

"I'd rather not, sir. I'm extremely sorry I mentioned it. It was a slip, sir."

"Chalmers, you can't say that much without telling me the rest, so go ahead."

"Very good, sir, though I hope you won't attach any importance to it, sir. It seems that one of the maids—Marie it was, sir—went out to post a letter at about half-past five. Coming back she met the Captain's car..."

"Yes, go on."

"She says the car was going fast, but as it passed her she could see inside very plainly, and the nurse was sitting quite close to the Captain, with her head resting on his shoulder. That's all, sir, and it's not the kind of thing I care to repeat, though of course there may be nothing in it, sir."

"No, certainly not, Chalmers, nor does it explain what I'm trying to find out. Thank you."

He had preserved an indifferent air, but what the butler had told him was in the nature of a great shock. He felt suddenly quite sick with disillusionment. Had he been a fool all along, completely wrong in his estimate of this girl? Was she simply like so many others, possessed of two sides, one which she kept for him, and the other, perhaps, not quite so restrained? But for this story he would not have believed it possible.... After all, why attach so much importance to the tale of an idle servant? What if she had made a mistake, what if she had invented it out of mischief? Surely he knew Esther too well to be deceived in her. Impatiently he strove to thrust the suspicion aside.

Yet in his unhappy brain, buzzing now with fever, a voice sardonically demanded, "What man ever does really know a girl?" Particularly—he winced at the thought—what man who has money? Isn't it a common sight, that of a woman making herself attractive to a man because of what he can give her, while all the time she is secretly drawn towards someone else? For that matter Esther herself had admitted to him that she found Holliday attractive. Then what about that occasion, a trifling incident enough, when he had come upon the two of them standing so close together, gazing into each other's eyes? He had thought at the time that the moment held at least the germ of a flirtation. Why should Esther be immune from suspicion? Wasn't it possible that from the beginning she had cherished a hidden penchant for the callous Arthur? She would not be the first victim by a long shot.

Yet—Esther! He could picture her now, her clear, frank eyes looking straight into his with an expression of boyish simplicity. How could one suspect her? Surely she was incapable of intrigue; why, he had believed in her so! She was the one girl he felt he wanted for his wife, if she would have him. Only a little North Country streak of caution had held him back from asking her the actual question—or at least it was partly due to caution and partly to the circumstances of his father's death and his own illness. He had meant to as soon as this business was over. Good God! Suppose he had proposed and she had accepted him, but without caring for him—suppose without any love in her heart she had married him! He might not have found out the truth until too late. The very idea revolted him; he clenched his fists so violently that the nails of his right hand dug deep into his injured thumb. Feeling the pain and seeing the red ooze up through the bandage, he struggled briefly with unwelcome recollections, then on a sudden impulse tore off the enfolding gauze and flung it angrily into the fireplace. He had broken open the plagued wound again, but he did not care.

If only he could know for certain whether to believe that maid's story or not! Was Esther in plain language "that kind of girl"? The thought that he might never know the truth goaded him to fury. If she was all he wanted to believe her, how could one account for that detestable picture of her nestling close to Holliday, her head on his shoulder? How explain her disappearance? For that is what he began to call it. During the course of the evening he rang up every hotel and pension in Cannes and the neighbourhood without finding any news of her. Moreover, the one person who could give him any information about her movements—Holliday himself—had at midnight not returned to the Carlton. What was one to make of that fact? It seemed to indicate that the pair of them were off somewhere together dining—and after that, what?

There was no real sleep for him that night, and the morning found him decidedly worse. He did not even demur when the doctor came with Dido and quietly laid down the law about rest and diet. He agreed listlessly, unwilling to cause poor Dido additional anxiety. After all, why not give in to them? They were only giving him good advice; he had been stupid.

An hour later, however, he was not too ill to crawl to the telephone when no one was about. Once again he rang up the Carlton in quest of Holliday, only to be told that the Captain had not returned all night, was still away.

The inference of this, acting upon his present state of mind, was like pouring petrol on a smouldering fire. So she had gone off with the fellow, had spent the night with him somewhere! The thing was true; there was no good trying to shut one's eyes to it any longer. A dozen tiny incidents recurred to him, each magnified a hundredfold, together bearing incontrovertible evidence against Esther. What a good thing he had found her out in time! He ought to be thankful. Why wasn't he thankful? He was only furious, sick at heart, utterly miserable...

He must have sat for an hour on the side of his bed, huddled in his dressing-gown, shivering and moistening his dry lips. He was like that when Therese came in to inquire how he was feeling. He saw her face alter as she caught sight of him, and he dully surmised that he must look pretty queer. He submitted without protest when she urged him to get back into bed.

"Is anything the matter?" she inquired gently, smoothing the covers over him with her white, well-manicured hands.

"I'm devilish thirsty," he told her with a laugh.

"Ah, I will get you some water!" she cried quickly, and going into the bathroom brought him a bottle of Evian water and a glass. He drank greedily, finished what was left in the bottle.

"You'd like some more, wouldn't you?" he heard her say, and started to utter a protest, but she was already gone. He hated to have Therese waiting on him; but if she would she would, he couldn't stop her. She was trying to be decent; after all, he mustn't behave like a bear.

She was back almost at once with a full bottle of mineral water, and he drank another glassful thirstily.

"I really think, my dear, we shall have to have a nurse for you," she remarked softly, studying his face.

"Nurse!" he exclaimed, starting up in a rage. "No, I won't have a nurse. I tell you it's no good. I'm not going to be ill—but if I am I'm going to..."

When it came to the point he couldn't bring himself to mention the nursing-home idea. In the face of Therese's kindness it seemed so ungrateful. He lay back and closed his eyes with a frown, conscious that she was watching him curiously.

"Therese," he said after a pause, "I suppose you haven't had any word from Arthur Holliday, have you?"

"From Arthur? But yes, certainly; he telephoned me a little while ago."

Roger sat up again, galvanising into life.

"He telephoned you? What did he say? About Miss Rowe, I mean."

"I asked him. He said after they left here he had a breakdown; I forgot what he said went wrong. The nurse was in a hurry, so he got her a taxi, put her into it with her luggage, and she drove off. That's all he knows."

"Oh! Did he happen to mention why he didn't go back to his hotel last night?"

She smiled shrewdly, as if she guessed his thoughts.

"Yes; he said he dined at the Casino with a man he ran into, took a bank at baccarat, and as he was winning he didn't like to leave off until the room closed. After that he went to a Turkish bath."

It furnished an excellent, complete alibi, if one could believe it. After all, why not? It could easily be true.

"He's catching the night train back to Paris," she went on. "He only came for the funeral. You know he was so fond of poor Charles."

"So he's going to South America, after all," mused Roger. "I thought he'd given it up."

"Why should you think that?" she demanded quickly. "He must do something to make a living."

He was not listening, his thoughts busy again with the question of why, if Esther had not gone off with Holliday, she had failed to communicate with him? In one way he felt slightly relieved, yet the business was as mysterious as ever.

"Roger," Therese said suddenly, sitting down on the side of the bed, "I believe you are still worrying about that nurse. Isn't that so?"

He was silent, unwilling to discuss the matter with Therese. Yet, in spite of himself, something in her tone made him look at her attentively.

"If I were you," she continued slowly, "I shouldn't think too much about her. I feel I ought to tell you that."

His eyes flashed at her a belligerent glance.

"Just what do you mean by that?" he demanded.

"I hadn't meant to tell you," she went on with slight hesitation. "But you know I had a reason for sending her away yesterday. If it hadn't been for the fact that your father seemed to like her so much the doctor would have made a change some little time ago. He wasn't altogether ... pleased with her."

"Pleased with her! What are you getting at?"

"Roger, don't upset yourself; lie down quietly, or I won't tell you."

"Very well, I'm perfectly quiet; now tell me. This is something I want to hear. What did he think was wrong about Miss Rowe?"

The hardness in his voice was a challenge. Therese examined the nails of her right hand and lightly polished them on the palm of her left. Then she replied carefully:

"Well, you know soon after she came here she began to behave just a little oddly at times. At first the doctor did not think it serious, but towards the end he was afraid that she was a little—a little——"

"A little what?"

"Well—unbalanced. Have you ever heard of anyone having 'confusional attacks'?"

"I don't know. Yes, perhaps. What about it?"

"That is what the doctor thinks she has."

"Utter rubbish! Miss Rowe is one of the most normal people I have ever known."

"So she impressed me, at least most of the time. Indeed the doctor says that a person who has those attacks may be quite normal part of the time, only sometimes they get strange ideas into their heads and behave queerly. That was what Miss Rowe was doing. It didn't seem altogether wise to have her here."

There was an ominous glitter in the ill man's eyes, the muscles in his cheeks twitched as his lips tightened.

"What do you mean by 'not altogether wise'?" he inquired coldly.

"I see you don't believe me, Roger. I don't suppose you noticed anything wrong with her. I don't know that I should have done so, if the doctor hadn't told me certain things. But the fact is, she wasn't always quite to be trusted in emergencies. She was a little—what do you call it?—erratic, that's the word. The doctor is even convinced that she was largely responsible for your father's relapse. There! I had not meant to speak of it!"

"That at least is a lie, a barefaced attempt to injure her!" cried Roger, unable to bear any more.

"My dear! How can you!" murmured Therese so incredulously that he felt slightly ashamed.

"I don't say you invented it, Therese, but it's a lie for all that."

"I heard, too, from Dido about her sending you an excited message and then going off without seeing you," continued his stepmother calmly. "That is quite typical behaviour, so the doctor says. It is just the sort of thing she would do; it is really a mild mental case."

He made a gesture of weariness, suddenly feeling he must get rid of her.

"It may all be true, Therese; I'm sure I don't know. At any rate I think I'll try to get a nap, if you'll leave me. I didn't sleep well last night."

"Of course, dear! Thank Heaven you are going to be sensible. Perhaps, too, you'll let the doctor advise you about that anti-toxin? I should, if I were you."

"Yes, I'll let him talk to me, if you like."

Anything to get rid of her, he thought. He kept his eyes tight closed until she was well out of the room and the door shut behind her. Then he sprang out of bed and with trembling haste put on his clothes. When he was completely dressed he rang for Chalmers and demanded a taxi.

"But you're not going out, Mr. Roger! I don't know what the doctor or your aunt will say, sir!"

"Look here, Chalmers, you're not going to mention this to anyone, do you hear? I'm absolutely all right; I know what I'm about. Just you get me that taxi and be quick about it."

Five minutes later he slipped quietly out of the house and with a whirling head fell into the waiting taxi. He might or might not be doing a foolish thing, but no matter what happened he intended to scour Cannes in search of Esther.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Out of what seemed a long dark night, filled with shapeless images, Esther woke at last. She believed herself in her comfortable bed at the Villa Firenze, and for a brief moment she wondered at the hardness of the mattress beneath her. Next she was aware that her head throbbed dully and that her mouth felt dry and harsh. She swallowed several times. Was she ill? Had anything happened? Then followed the discovery that she was fully dressed, even to her coat and shoes. How could that be? It was vaguely disquieting.

She opened her eyes wider and let them roam slowly around. The light was failing; it was almost dusk. She saw on one side of her, close, a bare, blank wall, on the other a wide opening, more than a doorway, hung at the sides with heavy, dusty curtains of a dingy red material. The curtains looked familiar. Where had she seen them before? She lay perfectly motionless, pondering the matter idly, not deeply interested. All at once it came to her: they were the portieres of the doctor's laboratory; she was in the alcove of the room; this bed that felt so hard and unyielding was Sartorius's bed....

Instantly memory flooded back upon her in a vast wave. She sat up, sick with terror, and clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming aloud. Her hand itself trembled, her whole body shook as though with ague, but she made no sound. Instead she leaned against the wall for support and with her heart beating like a trip-hammer continued to stare about her, listening acutely. All around was dead stillness; she could hear nothing except the steady drip-drip of water from a leaky tap. The room was empty but for herself, perhaps there was no one in the whole house. Beside her was an old bedside table with two or three dusty paper-bound books on it. Through the curtains she could just see the end of the long work-table and one of the cupboards.

The time puzzled her. It had just been getting dark when she last remembered anything; it was getting dark now. Yet surely she had been here more than, say, half an hour? She thought of her wrist-watch. It had stopped, the hands pointing to a quarter to one. That meant it had run down, for she had wound it at a quarter to one—was it yesterday? How could she tell? She caught herself yawning heavily, overcome with fatigue and drowsiness. The one thing she instinctively desired with her whole being was to lie down again and drift off to sleep.

"Good God, I can't do that!" she muttered, shaking herself. "I've got to think, to think hard. I've got to find a way out of this!"

There was no doubt in her mind as to why she was here. She was dangerous to the doctor; she possessed information which would ruin him. He had overheard her conversation on the telephone; more than that he had probably received and opened the chemist's report when it came to the villa. Without doubt he had had something of this sort in mind when he came and suggested driving her to her pension. He hadn't meant to let her out of his sight; he had even inquired about what friends she had to ascertain whether there was much danger of her being traced. He had meant to get her alone in his car, then stupefy her in some way and bring her here. Her telephoning to the chemist had precipitated matters, made him take a desperate chance and act quickly. At least that was how she construed things. How he had managed to get her out and into his car was a mystery. She had just sent that message to Roger, she recalled. Two minutes, one minute's delay, and the bold plan would have miscarried. Would they miss her at the villa—Miss Clifford or Roger? With a sinking heart she knew they were not likely to for some days. She had said good-bye to the former. Roger indeed might think it a little odd, her sending for him and then going away, but he would hardly imagine anything seriously wrong. No, there was no chance at all of her being sought for, at any rate not here. No one would ever think of looking here.

How had she lost consciousness so completely, so instantaneously? Ah, of course! That stab in her arm, it had been the wound of a hypodermic needle, that weapon she now so closely associated with the doctor. Her arm felt sore to the touch, a spot near the shoulder. She had been doped, kept stupefied—she had no idea for how long. What a risk the man had taken! That proved conclusively how much he feared her. She knew him for a murderer, she alone. His own life was in peril, as well as all his hopes for reaping the benefit of his crime, as long as she was free to tell what she knew. There was no one but herself to give him away, no one else to say how he had cold-bloodedly done away with one victim and now was laying a trap for another one... for Roger....

Roger! As the thought struck her she almost leapt to her feet in consternation. He was in danger now; he had no suspicion to protect him. Unless he held firm against that anti-toxin he was already doomed. How could she tell if they had already overcome his prejudice? Perhaps he had by now had the injections, one, two even. If he had, nothing could save him, she knew that. Her heart grew cold with fear.

Still, there was a loophole of hope. He had distinctly assured her he had made up his mind against the anti-toxin. If only he could be depended upon to remain obstinate! The danger was that he might at any moment yield to the persuasions of his aunt. He hated to distress her needlessly. After all, his resistance was only a caprice; it could not be depended on as a safeguard. It came to her with dreadful certainty that there was no one who could warn him but herself—and she was a prisoner, several miles away. For the moment her own possible fate scarcely concerned her at all. It was the thought of Roger's position which drove her nearly frantic, impelled her to rise with tottering, cautious steps and investigate her prison.

She crept, trembling, to the door and tried the handle. It was locked, of course; she had known it would be. She clung to the knob and looked around. The room, built for a studio, had no window, only a sloping skylight, which was firmly fastened. The atmosphere was close, that of a room long shut up, flavoured with tobacco-smoke and the clean, pungent odour of carbolic. Dust lay on the furniture, but here and there it was disturbed in streaks, showing that someone had been there recently. She wondered if she was all alone in the house. She remembered that Jacques was away on holiday. Yet it scarcely seemed likely that Sartorius would care to risk leaving her completely unguarded. Again she listened, leaning against the door, conscious of extreme weakness and trying hard to keep her teeth from chattering. No sound whatever came from the rooms below; the silence somewhat reassured her. She resolved at once to see if there was any possible way of escaping. Yet as she left the door and took a cautious step towards the centre of the room, perspiration broke out all over her body and ran in streams down her back, her limbs, her face. She felt her knees give under her. Whether all this was due to pure weakness or in part to fright she could not tell, but it occurred to her as possible that she had been here several days without food and repeatedly drugged. How she came to be conscious now caused her a fleeting wonder.

If only there were a telephone in the room—but the one instrument was on the ground-floor. There seemed no possible means of communication with the outside world. She could scream, of course, but that would only serve to alarm anyone who happened to be in the house, or even if the house was empty she could scarcely hope that her voice would be heard far below in the street. The one chance that suggested itself to her was the skylight. It seemed just faintly possible that she might be able to get through it and somehow down to the ground. It presented decided elements of danger, undoubtedly, but there was no choice. She knew too well what it would mean if she stayed here. No, it was the skylight or nothing; she must think how the attempt could be managed.

Clutching on to the back of a chair for support, she eyed the sloping glass above her and made certain rough calculations. If she mounted upon a chair placed on the table she might fairly easily unfasten the big central group of panes, which was the part that opened outward. She even thought she could contrive to climb up to the opening and get outside, but after that came the rub. She would have to slide off the side of the roof and drop to the ground, and common sense told here there was not a chance of her reaching the ground without a broken leg or arm, even if she was not killed outright. The distance was too great; there was nothing to break her fall. There was no use whatever in getting outside the house if she was going to be too disabled to go farther. She must try to find something she could turn into a sort of rope to cling to. Her eyes sought rapidly about and fell upon the long red curtains. The stuff seemed thick and strong; she could perhaps tear them up into strips, knot the lengths together and so make something that would serve for part of the distance, at any rate. If it didn't reach to the ground, she must chance it. She would have to be quick about it, too, for something warned her she was not likely to be left very long alone. Indeed, she was sure within her that the doctor had meant for her to remain unconscious, never wake up again. The idea filled her with a sickening horror, so that she had to set her teeth hard together to stop their chattering.

Standing upon the chair she began with shaking fingers and as hurriedly as she could to undo the rusted curtain-hooks from their big wooden rings. She had managed only the first one when a sound from the street below made her stop and listen, petrified. A car had stopped. She waited, breathless, and an instant later heard the loud bang of the street door. Like a flash she was down again on the floor, and in one panic-stricken movement had slithered back on the camp-bed and drawn up the army blanket over her, as it had been when she came to. As far as she could remember it she arranged herself in her former position, half turned towards the wall on her right side. Thank Heaven it was darker now. She recalled with gratitude the fact that there was no electric fixture in the alcove. If anyone came, she must do her utmost to appear unconscious, and trust to the sheltering gloom to aid her in the deception.

She waited and waited. Long minutes went by; it might have been half an hour, but it was probably not nearly so long. Her body began to be so cramped she felt she must move or die; moreover, it was some time before her heart ceased beating so violently as to lift the blanket. At last when she thought she could bear no more the footsteps of two persons mounted the steps to the laboratory. The key grated in the lock of the door. With an inward desperate prayer she closed her eyes and relaxed the muscles of her face, just as the door swung open and the light flashed in her face from the larger part of the room. It was only a dim light in here, though. She knew that the lamp, a high-powered one with a green shade, shed its rays straight down on the work-table.

Heavy steps at once crossed the floor and paused beside her. She heard the doctor's breathing as he bent over her, she smelled the tobacco odour of his clothing, and felt her cheek burn as though seared beneath his scrutiny. Presently he spoke, in her ear, it seemed.

"I suppose you gave her the injection at the time I told you to?"

"Oh, God, yes; I gave it to her all right!"

Esther experienced a sharp shock. The second voice was that of Captain Holliday. How on earth did he come into this? Or had he been in it from the first? Somehow from his tone of frightened tension she thought he had not, yet she could not imagine what he was doing here now. Instinctively she knew that the doctor was still studying her closely, and she felt that if he kept it up much longer she would give herself away. Already she feared that in some way she had betrayed her astonishment of a moment ago. Had he noticed anything? She was ignorant of how to simulate a drugged sleep; she might be doing it all wrong.

Suddenly, without the least warning, she felt a cruel pinch on her shoulder. The doctor, to satisfy himself, had resorted to this crude but effectual method of finding out if she was quite unconscious or not. At least it might easily have proved effectual, only Providence intervened. She never knew how it was she did not shriek aloud, but instead managed to remain perfectly quiescent, unresisting. A second later she had her reward. She heard the huge man move away, his step creaking across the bare boards out into the main room. She breathed again, and listened.

For about two minutes there was silence, then Holliday spoke, bursting out with a sort of defiance that had terror in it, she thought.

"See here, Sartorius, I'm going to clear out. I've had enough. I didn't know what I was letting myself in for the other day, or I wouldn't have helped you out."

"You'll stay here."

This bald statement, uttered with peculiar emphasis, caused a shudder to run through Esther. There was something ominous in it, crushing. The young man may have thought so too, to judge by the nervous, uncertain fashion in which he strove to combat the command.

"The hell I shall! Who'll keep me if I want to go?"

There was no response, and after a second Holliday continued argumentatively:

"You know I've had nothing to do with this business—nothing! It's true I told Therese, long ago, the things that people said about you in Algeria. I never knew if they were true or not; I didn't want to know. It was nothing to me how you got money to live on. You saved my life, that was enough for me. Good God, the past few days must prove I'm not ungrateful! Still, there's a limit to everything, and this thing's too damned risky for me; I don't want anything to do with it."

"Listen to me."

The doctor's voice was level, his words dropping like a heavy weight across the young man's nervous protest.

"Well, I'm listening."

"You appear to have got the idea that you are sacrificing yourself for me. That is not quite true. By doing as I tell you and remaining here you are saving yourself."

"How do you make that out?"

"It is perfectly simple. You realise of course that that woman in there is the only person who has the knowledge necessary to bring a charge; no one else has even a slight suspicion. Therefore it is hardly worth while to emphasise the reasons for keeping watch over her closely until such time as I am able to dispose of her satisfactorily. These things take time and thought. One can't rush into them without running risks."

A shiver shook Esther from head to foot. She knew now, if she had had any doubts before, what was going to happen to her. The cold-blooded statement had an effect on Holliday also, for his voice sounded high-pitched and oddly rough as he replied:

"I suppose one has to admit all that, but why in hell's name have I got to be her jailor? If she's unconscious, why can't she be left alone?"

"Simply because I refuse to take the risk. There is no knowing what might happen; one can't be sure of anything."

There followed the scratch of a match and the smell of cigarette smoke; then, as if reading his friend's thoughts, Sartorius continued:

"And in case you have any secret intention of giving me the slip, just bear this in mind: If the detention of this girl ever comes out, the fat will be in the fire, for you just as much as for me. Dead or alive, it will make little difference; you are bound to be implicated. How good a chance do you think you'd have of proving your innocence? You'd be held as an accessory both before and after the act, if you were lucky enough to escape a more serious charge. You are in it now; it's to your own interest to help me by staying in it."

"Good God!" groaned the young man, as though caught in a trap.

"I thought you'd see my point. You know me. You I never exaggerate."

"But is it essential to get rid of the girl entirely?" Holliday asked in a jerky fashion. "Isn't there any other means of keeping her quiet?"

"Oh, yes, but nothing that can really be depended on. I could, of course, by means of a simple operation, destroy certain areas in the brain which would deprive her of memory and speech, but these faculties sometimes have a tiresome tendency to restore themselves or to delegate their functions to other areas. No, there is only one safe plan, and even that wants thinking out. There must be no trace left."

"God!" exploded Holliday weakly, yet with a kind of loathing. "Why don't I go straight to the police and give the whole show away? I've half a mind to."

"Oh, no, I think you won't do that. There is too good a reason for not giving the show away, as you call it."

"What reason do you mean?"

"If you did go to the police you would deprive yourself of a large fortune. By sitting tight and saying nothing you will quite soon be able to marry Lady Clifford. In the circumstances, you will hardly persist in attaching a purely fictitious value to two insignificant lives."

"Two!" gasped the younger man in a whisper. "Then you really mean to go on with Clifford?"

"I have no choice in the matter; it has become imperative to remove him. Since his father appointed him trustee of the estate, Lady Clifford is powerless to draw any large sums of money without his knowledge and consent. Consequently she would not be able to remunerate me for my services to her with regard to her husband."

"You mean it would rouse his suspicions if she kept paying out money to you?"

"Exactly. Of course to take on another case was more than I bargained for, but the thing was practically forced on me. It was Lady Clifford herself who began it without consulting me. She had kept back some of the typhoid culture, having sworn to me that she had thrown it all away. She started putting it into his bottled mineral water—she would keep the water a day or two in her own dressing-room, then carry it into his room and exchange it for the bottle that was there already. A fool's game—at any moment she might have been caught at it. However, there you are, she took the risk, then came to me and told me what she had done and why."

"I see. Then you only have to leave Clifford alone and let the disease take its course, I suppose?"

"Not at all. Typhoid artificially given seldom is severe enough to kill, particularly in the case of a young and vigorous subject. No, we should have to find some excuse for administering the pure toxin. It would do the trick at once, and without the least fear of detection. However, that is my difficulty; the man refuses utterly to submit to any sort of injection. Idiotic prejudices!"

Esther's heart gave a leap. Roger was still safe; he had not given in. She was so relieved that for the moment she almost forgot her own situation. The doctor continued thoughtfully:

"He is not sufficiently ill to be given anything without his consent, and as things are I daren't press him too much; he might think it peculiar.... No, it is no good; there has got to be some other way, something altogether different. Quickly too. To postpone it now would be the greatest risk of all.... It would have been very natural to have two members of a family fall ill with the same disease, but it can't be helped now. I happen to have some stuff here which will accomplish my purpose just as satisfactorily. That's why I came back this afternoon; I don't want to waste any time."

Esther's brief elation vanished like a bubble into the air. Some fresh horror was afoot. What was this man plotting now? She held her breath and listened painfully. She heard the doors of the oak armoire creak on their hinges as they swung open, then came the click of a glass jar. Holliday spoke, a tinge of fascinated curiosity in his tone.

"What sort of stuff do you mean? Not any kind of poison?"

"Good Lord, no! That would be asking for trouble. This must be a natural death; there's no good attempting anything else. Here's the thing I propose to use."

"What is it? It looks harmless."

"Simply tetanus."

She thought that her heart entirely stopped beating. Tetanus! Gripped by a sickening fear she forced herself to lie quite still, while waves of horror passed over. She heard as in a dream the stifled ejaculation of the young man.

"Tetanus ... why, God in heaven, that's lock-jaw!"

"Quite. The anti-toxin for it has been discovered, as a matter of fact. I have discovered it. However, that is not known to the public yet; it was very recent."

There was the sound of a long-drawn, shuddering gasp.

"But how do you mean to ... won't it be dangerous?" Holliday faltered.

"As it happens it is quite simple—a piece of luck. In fact that is why I thought of tetanus. It seems Clifford has been going about for nearly a week with an open cut on his thumb. Half the time there's no bandage on it, although I've warned him more than once of the risk of infection. This morning his aunt persuaded him to let me disinfect it properly and bandage it. So that is what I am going to do when I get back this evening."

There was a choking sound, as if Holliday were in danger of being sick. A chair scraped on the floor; there was the clink of glass.

"Here, pull yourself together; this will fix you. Sit there.... I did not know you were so sensitive."

A gulp, followed by another shuddering sound. Then, weakly, with a sort of loathing, "I don't know. I never liked the fellow ... but this... Besides, it's damned risky; you can't pretend it isn't."

"Why? Think of it calmly. Who can prove how he got the infection? It's a thing that can never be proved, one way or the other. Everyone knows he's laid himself open to it, that I have warned him.... No, no. You will see. As for any other feeling you may have, you must settle with your own squeamishness; that is no concern of mine."

There was a short pause, while upon her hard couch Esther set her teeth together and clenched her hands with all her remaining strength. She wondered if she was going to faint. She felt she must listen, listen, not miss one word. Like something in a nightmare the cold, phlegmatic voice continued slowly:

"I look upon things as they are, simply, without prejudice. With all life, human or otherwise, one creature preys upon another. One has to decide, Am I worth the sacrifice of another human being? I do not know that I should consider you worth it, my good friend, to be quite frank, but in my own case I venture to think that I am. Having made my mind clear on this point, I go ahead, merely observing certain precautions which will be necessary as long as the exceptional individual is so far in advance of the mass. I do not hesitate to declare that the work I can do for science is worth many hundreds—or shall I say thousands?—of Cliffords, young and old. To think for one moment of putting my labours for the next twenty years in the balance against a couple of cotton-manufacturers is ludicrous, that is all."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! Yes, if you look at it that way, I suppose it's a devil of a joke!"

Holliday was becoming hysterical.

"Also one must not lose sight of the fact that when the young one is out of the way, you and I will both benefit considerably more than we first expected. Lady Clifford will inherit three to four times as much. I look forward to being quite unhampered; I shall be able to devote myself to research for the rest of my life."

Somewhere far below a clock struck a single mellow clang. It was the same clock that had ticked so loudly that day when Esther first came to the house. She could see it now, its wide white face crossed by its thin hands of decorated bronze.

"Six-thirty. I must be off to catch Clifford when he gets home. The imbecile has been out and about the town for two days with a temperature of over a hundred and one—searching everywhere for this girl. I believe he was going to the police to-day. That is another reason for not losing time. There is little likelihood of anyone's coming here, but one never knows."

In the midst of her almost paralysing fear a thrill shot through Esther when she heard that Roger was concerned over her disappearance. Then it had mattered to him when she didn't telephone! She also knew now how long she had been here. If only these two would go, would leave her alone, she might possibly be able to carry out her plan of escape; she would risk it, anyway, desperate though it seemed. Once she got clear of the house she could find a telephone and ring Roger up. That would be sufficient. If only they would go! Why were they still lingering here?

At last the floor creaked with the heavy tread. A wild hope rose in her breast. A second later and it perished miserably, as she heard the doctor say:

"I'll just give her another shot before I leave. Then she'll be safe for some time. Where is the syringe?"

"Here, on the table."

A silence, then Sartorius's voice, reflectively:

"Humph, you didn't give her quite all of it, did you? There's a bit left."

That, perhaps, explained her being conscious now. What an irony! To think that Holliday's inexpertness should have brought about the agony of the past half-hour! But for him she would have remained in peaceful oblivion, out of which she would have passed imperceptibly to her final sleep. These terrible moments were her last glimpses of life. In a few seconds would come utter blankness again; her last chance would be gone for saving Roger and herself. Should she make a struggle for it and die fighting? Or was it better to continue her supine pretence and quietly allow the needle to reduce her once more to a merciful torpor?

"Hand me that tumbler, will you?"

Water splashed from the tap into the basin. She could have burst out laughing at the precise habits of the man which remained with him now when they mattered not at all. She could almost see him wash the needle, could follow every movement up to the setting down of the glass beside her on the little table de nuit.

It was coming, now, the stab that marked the end of conscious life, the ruin of her one hope of rescuing the man she loved from a horrible death. It was all over now.... She felt the doctor's breath stir her hair, she smelled again the hot odour of strong tobacco, was conscious of the wave of animal heat emanating from his body as he bent over her. Now ... her lovely chestnut-coloured blouse must be peppered with holes. What a pity! ... not that it mattered now—how absurd to think of that! ...



CHAPTER XXIX

What sound was that? The noise of ringing. Was it within her own brain? No, surely not; it was the bell downstairs, a loud, persistent peal. Not the telephone; no, it must be the front-door bell.

An annoyed exclamation came from the doctor.

"I'll have to answer that; it won't do to leave it."

A little click as the needle was laid down, then the retreating steps of both men, out of the room. The door closed, the key turned mechanically. She could hear the doctor's heavy steps lumbering all the way down to the bottom floor, while she fancied Holliday remained on the stairs. Was this a providential respite, or only another tantalising false hope?

Cautiously she opened her eyes and moved her cramped limbs a little. What difference could it make now if they knew she had been awake? On the table at her side she saw the hypodermic syringe, fully charged, lying beside a glass of water. She stared at them fascinated.

Suddenly an idea came to her, the wildest idea conceivable, not one chance in a million of its succeeding, yet now, in the face of extinction, anything was worth trying. She had nothing to lose. Quick as lightning she seized the needle, squirted its contents on the floor back of the bed, then with the same speed refilled it from the tumbler. She laid it down again exactly where it had been before, looked to see that there were no drops spilled. Then once more she lay down, trying with meticulous care to resume her old posture. Was this right? No, her head must have been a little lower. Oh, what hope was there of deceiving those keen little python's eyes? The man would surely detect the smallest variation in her attitude. No, it was a pathetic ruse, foredoomed to failure. If he suspected she had moved he would examine the needle, he would see the difference in colour. Her one hope lay in the gloom of the alcove. A few minutes more and she would know the worst.

She lay still and counted to keep from going mad. One, two, three, four, five—slowly, more slowly still, so as to make sixty counts equal a minute. One never could do that, one always went too fast. She had counted three sixties when the front door closed below and returning footsteps mounted the stairs. One flight, two flights ... the key rasped, the boards creaked, she heard Sartorius saying:

"You see now, that is the sort of thing one must be prepared for. Suppose no one had been here? Those asses would have gone back to the agent's and got a key, or else some fellow from the office would have come back with them to show them the house. Just the same, I want you to telephone the estate office that I've changed my mind about sub-letting."

He was now at her side. Would he notice anything wrong?

"She's about to come to. I thought that dose wouldn't last long."

She heard him pick up the needle. Now ... what was happening? Was he examining it? ... An agonising pain in her upper arm reassured her. She was prepared for it to hurt worse than an ordinary injection, plain water did. She bore the torture without a quiver, holding her breath until she heard the doctor move away.

Suddenly Holliday burst out again with an edge of nervous apprehension in his voice.

"See here, Sartorius. What about that chemist? He knows. What if he goes to the police?"

The doctor gave a disparaging grunt.

"What does he know? Merely that an American nurse brought him a needle to be analysed and gave the Villa Firenze as her address. Very likely he would never think of doing anything; it is no business of his. But if he did, what could he prove? Why, nothing at all. There is no evidence whatever. If this thing ever got into court, I could suggest that the woman was mentally unbalanced, suffering from the delusions which cause intent to injure. I can prove that the nurse had access to the laboratory; it would be easy to make a jury believe that she put the toxin in the syringe herself, with the insane idea of making trouble for me. If she's not to be found, I should not have much difficulty in getting away with that theory. But it will never come to that."

"You seem devilish sure, but all the same——"

"Rubbish—if both Clifford and the girl are dead, who remains to bring a charge? Assuming the worst, I do not know that I'd have much to fear from a French jury with Therese Clifford facing them. No, the girl here is our one weak spot, and by the day after to-morrow at the latest I expect to be able to deal with her. No good rushing the business, though—it's fools who get into trouble because they won't lay their plans carefully."

The indescribably casual manner in which he referred to his coming crimes struck a chill to the listener's bones. He had apparently allowed for everything; any possible effort she might make to escape from his clutches seemed vain and bootless. She would have lost heart entirely, only there was the knowledge within her that on one point at least she had succeeded in foiling him.

"Give me that smallest phial from the rack, will you? I shall want only the merest trace of this. The rest can go down the drain."

The tap ran again; Esther knew that he was methodically washing out the bottle that contained the deadly culture. Another hour, perhaps less, and no power could save Roger from a torturing death, not even the certainty of what had caused it. Once an invisible touch of the villainous stuff penetrated the raw tissues of the wound, it would work its way straight into the blood-stream. Soon, very soon afterwards the jaw muscles would begin to stiffen.... Oh, if there were any sort of weapon in reach, knife, pistol, anything! She knew she would have thrown herself, weak as she was, upon that insensate, deliberate machine in the furious attempt to wreck it, careless of what might happen to herself.

"Come, I have no time to lose. Lock the door behind you."

The light was switched off, the door closed, she was alone once more, this time in almost complete darkness. Again she strained her ears upon the retreating steps, afraid yet to move her cramped muscles. The punctured arm throbbed and smarted painfully; every nerve in her body was stretched like a fiddle-string. Finally, far below, sounded the door's slam; a moment later, in front of the house, the whir of a starting engine vibrated upon the still air. The doctor was gone. Now or never, quick, not an instant to waste, every second lost lessened her slender chance of reaching the villa in time, even by telephone. Her plan was laid, she had no need of further deliberation.

First, crossing the floor on tip-toe, she turned on the light. She was afraid to do this, but it was necessary, and the chances were that Holliday could not spy the tell-tale crack of light that would show under the door without coming to the enclosed well of the staircase. Next she climbed upon her chair again and unpinned the curtains. Her fingers shook uncontrollably; never in her life had she known such a devastating weakness—at a time, too, when she needed far more than her normal strength! Towards the end of her task it was as much as she could do to keep from sliding off the chair into a heap on the floor. When the curtains lay in a dusty pile she was forced to rest a moment on top of them before attempting to continue. Her condition frightened her. At this rate she would not get far.

Wasn't there a brandy-bottle somewhere? Surely she had heard the doctor give Holliday something to drink. Rising cautiously, she looked about and discovered it on the long table, uncorked it, drank from the bottle. Only two fiery mouthfuls, however. She dared not take more in her present state of weakness and emptiness. The drink warmed her slightly, gave her back just enough strength to go on. Her project began to look less hopeless.

She found a knife and slit the tough fabric into strips, five lengths each, then tied the ends together, tightening the knots as well as she could. She had little idea of how far the improvised rope would reach, but it seemed fairly long when it was done. She began to think it would mean everything to get outside the house, whether she was injured or not. She had at least the chance of attracting some passer-by's attention before Holliday could discover she was gone and drag her back to her prison. Gathering up her load of rope she listened again. No sound whatever save the drip-drip of the tap in the corner. Laboriously she climbed to the top of the table, pulled the nearest chair up after her, planted it firmly beside her. Then she examined the skylight once more, deciding that if it were open she could manage to get her body through the central section, provided she had the strength to hoist herself up that high.

With infinite caution she undid the hasp and pushed open the casement, terrified lest the rusty, scrunching sound should penetrate to the lower floors. She shot out the iron rod to its full extent and fastened it, then started to search for something to which she could secure the end of her rope. There was a wooden shelf against the wall supported by iron brackets. Perhaps one of these brackets would serve, though she was afraid that her weight pulling suddenly upon it would tear out the screws from the plaster. There was nothing else close enough; she must trust to its holding firm. She made fast the rope's end, then with haste, but noiselessly began removing the row of bottles from the shelf and setting them down on the table beneath. She must get them out of the way for it would be necessary for her to step upon the shelf in order to climb up to the opening, there being nowhere else to set her foot. Five, six, seven bottles she put down. The eighth, a small one, had an uneven bottom. Before she knew what had happened it overbalanced, rolling over and over towards the table's edge. She tried to stop it, but could not reach it in time. Before her agonised eyes it fell to the floor with a loud, clear "ping."

Her heart in her mouth, she stood for one petrified moment rooted to the spot. Would Holliday hear? The answer came immediately. There was a sudden, loud clatter of footsteps, leaping headlong towards the laboratory stairs, charging full upon her. Like a flash it came to her that, discovered or not, she must get out of the skylight now, now, or it would be too late, she must stop for nothing. She mounted her chair, hurled the rope from the opening, and had just set foot upon the shelf ready for the final hoist when the door burst open and Holliday, wild-eyed, confronted her.

"Stop!"

There was a revolver in his hand, but she took no account of that. Urged by terror she strained with every ounce of force in her body to draw herself up to the skylight. The single glimpse she had of the young man's face showed it to be pale with anger and fright, the eyes glaring, the mouth parted to show snarling teeth. He raised his arm full-length, the revolver glittered in the greenish light.

"Drop it, damn you!"

He made a sort of rush at her, grabbing at the chair.

"Keep away!"

With both hands she seized the only available object, a huge jar which remained upon the shelf, lifted it on high, aimed it at his head. Simultaneously a revolver shot deafened her and choked her with smoke, there was a crash and falling glass splintered in a rain. The room was plunged in darkness. Half dazed, she still realised that amid the confusion she had completed her intention, had with a terrific effort launched the big jar as she had meant to do. Smothered curses followed and a second, duller smash, then, though she could see nothing, she smelled the strong, acrid fumes of ammonia rising, mingling with the stench of the powder. Had she hit him? She must not stop to inquire. During the ensuing instant of silence she tugged at the ledge above with a fresh, despairing effort, dragged herself up to the brink, felt the pure night air upon her face. The next second, clutching her rope in a mad grip, she let herself go, hurtling head first, then feet first, down the tiled slope of the roof, then into space over the sheer drop of the house's side.

Bumping, thumping, scraping her knuckles and shins, somehow, anyhow, down she slid, reached the end of the swaying rope, hung for one frightful moment kicking in mid-air, then dropped, plunk, like a lead in water. She landed, shaken and stunned, but not injured, upon the damp soft earth of a flower-bed. The rope dangled above her, only a few feet away. For a whirling space she feared she was going to faint, and with her whole will she fought off the engulfing fog, knowing she must not stay here a minute. She was out of the house, true, but still in imminent peril. At any moment Holliday might dash out and seize her, and as she was now she had no resistance whatever, scarcely power to scream.

Even as this thought matured in her brain, there came from within the walls the drunken sound of steps careering down the upper flight of stairs. Holliday! He might be slightly stunned, but he was recovered sufficiently to come in pursuit. A second and he would reach the door, only a few yards away from where she huddled. Quick—where could she hide?

Struggling to her feet she staggered across the little strip of garden and out the gate. If only there were someone in sight, anyone she could appeal to for protection! But no, for once the Route de Grasse stretched for a hundred yards in both directions empty as a desert. Turning blindly to the left she ran crazily, swaying from weakness, past the next two villas. At the gate of the third house she stopped, afraid to venture farther. Inside the garden a low, square-cut hedge offered a hope of shelter, if she could reach it in time. Already behind her she heard the doctor's door flung open, saw a bar of light stream into the dark street.

Like a shot partridge she dropped to the ground and wormed her way on her stomach through the gateway into the shadow of the hedge, crept close, lay still, afraid to breathe. Less than twenty yards away loud steps resounded on the flagstones. They came in her direction.



CHAPTER XXX

For a short space Esther believed herself lost. If Holliday found her, which seemed almost inevitable, she knew she would be powerless to put up a defence. It would be a simple matter for him to gag her and drag her back over the few yards of intervening side-walk before anyone could know what was happening. It was not as though there were many people about. She had never seen the street so deserted. An occasional motor passed, but she could detect no footstep save that of the man pursuing her.

She rolled over and lay prone on the damp mould, as close under the hedge as she could squeeze. The hedge itself was barely four feet high, but it presented a certain amount of cover now that it had gone dark. Perhaps if she knew in time that she had been discovered she might manage to dash to the door of the house and ring the bell violently. She gathered her strength for the attempt, then for the first time noticed a sign, "A louer," across the front windows. The place was vacant.

Her one hope lay in remaining stock-still, trusting to the shadows to hide her. This she did, and listening heard Holliday run around the side of the doctor's villa to the spot where she had fallen, then back again and once more out into the street. Here he paused, and she could picture him reconnoitring in every direction. He would know that she could not have gone far, that she must be concealed within a short radius. Unless someone came along the street discovery was merely a matter of minutes.

Her head still ringing from the bumps she had recently received, she felt herself rapidly relaxing, in spite of her danger. The thought of complete abandonment to repose stole over her like a powerful narcotic. It would have been heavenly to let herself go, to fall asleep here or lapse into a faint; she didn't know which it would be. For several seconds she saw the dark garden through a veil of black gauze. Then a voice inside her brain roused her; she braced herself and set her teeth fiercely to dam back the treacherous tide that threatened to swamp her senses. Whatever happened, she must hold on a little longer; she must, she must! ... She heard Holliday go down the street in the opposite direction, stop, then after another minute return, more slowly, towards her hiding-place. Another two seconds and he would be on a line with her. Now, through a rift in the hedge she could see his feet, moving undecidedly. Oh, why did no one come? The feet came towards her more and more slowly. Why was he hanging about in that way? At last, at a distance of six feet away from her, he stopped altogether. She could no longer see him, but she felt his presence. She almost knew that he was silently peering through the wall of foliage, endeavouring to probe into the shadows. The suspense grew unbearable, she felt she must scream out, "Here I am! What are you going to do about me?"

Suddenly other steps approached, those of two or three people. She listened eagerly: then she heard voices talking in quite unintelligible French, interspersed with laughter. She visualised a group of returning workmen. Just opposite her one of them spat on the pavement and broke into a snatch of song. Hardly had they passed by when others came—the desert was populated once more. She felt a merciful degree of security. At any rate Holliday would not dare now to come and seize her, or even if he did she had a better chance of creating an effectual disturbance. But where was Holliday? Had he departed, or was he still standing there, searching for her? She could not tell, and she was afraid to move to see better. What seemed an infinitude of time went by; then at last, realising how late it was growing and that she must not waste the precious minutes, she raised her head and took a cautious look through an open patch in the leaves towards the doctor's door. A few minutes ago it had stood open, emitting a bar of yellow light. Now the place was in complete darkness. That argued that Holliday had gone back whence he had come. Dare she rise to her feet and hasten on her way? She knew that she must dare; to stop here longer might easily be fatal to her project.

Yes, he was nowhere in sight, had apparently relinquished the pursuit. She did not stop to wonder why, or if he had anything up his sleeve. Instead she turned out of the gate to the side-walk, her clothing damp and clinging to her, her limbs trembling. She had passed one terror, but she was faced with a second almost as bad. Had the doctor already reached the Villa Firenze? Could she possibly contrive to forestall him? She must at once get to a telephone; it was her one chance.

A telephone—there must be one in this next villa; she would ring the bell and ask. With her knees giving under her at every step she hurried up the walk of a gingerbread pseudo-chalet, vilely prosperous-looking, and pressed her finger firmly on the electric button. There was a shrill peal, echoing throughout the house, but no one came. She rang again and yet again, holding her finger glued to the bell at last and stamping her feet with impatience. At last, after an endless interval, someone approached with a deliberate, shuffling tread, the door was unbarred—there seemed several bolts—and opened half-way to reveal a gim-crack interior in execrable taste and the figure of an old woman with a hard wrinkled face and grey hair smoothly banded under a black cap.

"S'il vous plait, madame," began Esther, half crying with agitation, "Est-ce qu'on peut telephoner? C'est tres important, madame."

The old face, unsmiling, critical, looked her over from head to foot. Esther for the first time realised her dishevelled appearance, her hatless head. She saw the hard eyes fix themselves in a suspicious stare on a point upon her cheek under the left eye. Mechanically she put up her hand and discovered a needle-like splinter of glass sticking into her face. She had not felt it before: it must have come from the electric-bulb which Holliday's revolver had shattered. There must be a good deal of blood on her cheek....

"Un accident," she murmured apologetically, trying to smile, then repeated desperately, beseechingly: "Le telephone, madame——? Je suis tres presse——"

The old woman spoke at last:

"On n'a pas de telephone ici," she replied with a Belgian accent, and pushed the door to in Esther's face.

Outraged and disappointed, the more so as she had caught sight of the telephone-instrument in the hall, Esther stumbled down the steps and out again to the street, sick at heart over the waste of time and strength, both priceless now. The old witch, the iron-faced creature, eyeing her as if she wanted to steal something! Never mind, she must simply try the house next door.

This proved to be an imposing edifice where one would expect to find several well-trained servants. Yet she rang the bell for three minutes at least without eliciting any response. At length she was on the point of departure, maddened by her fruitless efforts, when she was rewarded by a sound above her head. Looking up she saw that a casement had been thrown open and that a gentleman with his face covered in lather was gazing down upon her—at first angrily, then archly. Quite desperate now she framed her request in what French she could command, scarcely able to wait for the reply. The result was disconcerting. The shaving gentleman became excessively gallant, entreated his fair visitor to remain where she was for a tiny instant until he could descend and admit her, implored her with expansive gestures not on any account to go away and blight his life. As the sweep of the arm and the shrug of the shoulders betrayed only too plainly the fact that the hospitable gentleman was very much in a state of nature, except for the lather on his face, Esther took fright and bolted out of the gate, inwardly execrating the Gallic race and their amorous propensities. One more chance gone, she thought in a panic of dread, five minutes more wasted. Oh! to think a simple matter like finding a telephone should present so many difficulties!

Diagonally across the street loomed a large, modern apartment house of familiar design. Without doubt there would be a telephone there, in the loge of the concierge. Precipitately she darted across the street, narrowly escaping a motor-cycle, and plunged into the court. She could see the loge at the far end, up a flight of three shallow steps. Light streamed out of the wide glass double doors so frequently seen in this type of building; she aimed her faltering steps towards it as to a beacon. Within the doors she saw a brightly lit, stuffy room overcrowded with machine-carved furniture, the central table covered with a red chenille cloth, on which lay a string-bag bursting with vegetables and parcels. No soul was visible, but she spied the telephone against the back wall. She opened the doors and went in, a bell tinkling as she did so. From an inner room issued the sound of voices laughing and gossiping. The door was shut, and no one troubled at all to answer the summons.

She crossed hurriedly to the other door and opened it, disclosing a domestic group, fit subject for one of the Dutch school paintings. There was a neat, compact, black-clad woman with shining, immaculate coiffure, an old, florid, bald-headed man sluggishly fat, and a youth, long-limbed and pale, with the face of an apache and a dank lock of black hair dipping into his eyes. The woman was peeling potatoes and recounting a history, the old man smoked, and fondled a cat, the apache lounged against the chimney with a cigarette dangling from his thin lips. A dog slept on the hearth; there were two love-birds in a green cage upon the wall.

"S'il vous plait, madame——"

The three turned instantly and regarded her, all merriment gone, their eyes shrewd, alien, inquisitorial. She began to feel like a criminal, and struggled stammering in the effort to make her desire known, urgent though it was.

"Bien, mademoiselle, qu'est-ce que vous desirez?" the woman rapped out in staccato accents.

"Madame, s'il vous plait, je veux bien telephoner. Je regrette de vous deranger, mais c'est tellement important."

She saw the woman's gaze, hard and curious, take in the details of her appearance, from her muddy shoes up to her blood-stained cheek.

"I've had an accident—je viens d'avoir un petit accident," she explained hurriedly. "Il faut que je telephone immediatement."

The concierge's face cleared slightly.

"Pour chercher un medecin, sans doute?" she suggested. "Bien—voici le telephone."

Gratefully Esther thanked her and took down the receiver in her trembling hand. The operator failed to understand her accent; she repeated the number three or four times without success, and was on the point of bursting into tears when the concierge possessed herself of the receiver and delivered the number for her, crisply and precisely.

"Voila, mademoiselle," she announced in triumph, and returned to her potatoes.

There followed a long wait. From the other room Esther could hear the family group discussing her in subdued voices, her strange aspect, her evident weakness. They hazarded guesses as to how she had received her injuries. The old man was positive that the lady's lover had been chasing her with a knife; the wound on her face was a proof of it, in his opinion.

A series of buzzings, tappings and clinkings came over the wire, with hints of far-distant unintelligible conversation. This continued while with agonised eyes Esther watched the hands of the big clock on the wall creep from five minutes past seven to eleven past. Still no connection. At last the operator, remote and chill as the top of the Tour Eiffel, informed her that there was no reply. With French born of desperation Esther cried, "Sonnez encore! Sonnez toujours! Je suis sure qu'il y a quelqu'un la!" Then recommenced the mysterious commotion on the line, which, before, led to nothing.

"Oh, God! oh, God!" she breathed hysterically. "It will be too late, it may already be too late! Oh, God, help me, make them answer!"

She was dimly aware that the apache was lounging in the doorway, using a toothpick and examining her with interest. The voices from the inner room had ceased; everyone was listening, but she did not care. All at once a click louder than those preceding told her she had been put through at last. Hope leapt within her. Alas! It suffered an immediate extinction, when she found herself au courant of a conversation between two people of opposite sexes, a dalliance flirtatious in character, interspersed with laughter and snatches of song. Three times she lowered the hook, three times she raised it to find herself still listening to the idiotic babble—"Tu ne m'aimes pas? Hein? Pourquoi pas?"—laughter—"Quand j'ai regarde le couleur de ton nes l'autre soir, j'etais completement bouleverse, j' t'assure!"—"Ah, formidable!" then another shrill cackle. It was beyond endurance.

There was no use trying further. The clock hands touched twenty minutes past, she had thrown away over a quarter of an hour here while at the villa death was closing in surely upon its unsuspecting victim. She dropped the receiver with a groan, turning to the woman, who had just come out.

"Madame, c'est inutile. Je vous remercie."

The woman looked her over again with a softened glance, touched, perhaps, by the tremor that shook her visitor's voice.

"Mademoiselle est souffrante?"

"Non, madame, pas trop, ce n'est pas ca—mais il y a quelqu'un qui est en danger—quelqu'un qu'il faut prevenir. Si je peux trouver un taxi——"

"Gaston! Vite! Cherche un taxi pour mademoiselle. Va!"

With a warmed feeling that these were kindly people after all, Esther watched the young man's long figure slink out of the door like an otter around the bend of a stream.

"Asseyez-vous, mademoiselle," the woman bade her, and pushed forward a chair.

But she could not sit down. She was in a fever of excitement, quivering all over. With one section of her mind she thanked the woman again, with another she looked for the young man's return, with still another she said to herself, "How long will it take me to get to La Californie from here? Has Roger come back? Is the doctor getting the bandage ready for his hand? Oh, if it should already be too late!"

A torturing interval ensued. She left the loge and wandered out to the entrance. Rain had begun to fall, that would make it harder to find a taxi. It would happen, now of all times! Ten minutes passed, then up the street chug-chugged a somewhat battered motor-vehicle with the apache hanging on the step. Yes, it was a taxi, an antediluvian one, but she must not be critical. If a chariot offered one a lift out of hell, one would not stop to inquire its horse-power. The apache helped her in and closed the door. She turned grateful eyes on him through the open window and with an expressive gesture showed him she had no purse.

"Pas de quoi, mademoiselle," he responded gruffly, and her opinion of the French rose several points.

The chauffeur, a septuagenarian who smelled of wine, had a bulbous nose and was so deaf that it took her several seconds to make him understand where she wanted to go. When finally he grasped the address, he tapped his most conspicuous feature with a horny finger, and, his engine having by this time stopped, descended with creaks and groans to crank it up. He was so long over the operation that she began to be alarmed. However, he was not drunk, only senile. Of the two, his taxi was far worse—rickety, spavined, with every evidence of decrepitude. It started with a jerk which threw its occupant off her seat.

"At any rate I'm moving," she told herself with real relief. "I'm getting there at last. That's something."

Any sort of motion might be better than none, yet when she realised the pace at which she must crawl she suffered strong misgivings. To jog along like this when speed was a prime essential! Moreover they did not always jog, frequently they stopped dead still, while the ancient driver fumbled with the gear and eventually hit upon something which sent them forward again with a fresh spasm. It was so completely maddening that after the fifth attack she could bear it no longer. Thrusting her head out of the window she shouted shrilly:

"Vite! Vite! Je suis tres presse! Vite!"

She regretted her lack of expletives, but she need not have done so. The sole result, amid mumblings and grumblings, was an abortive spurt which ended in a breakdown more disastrous than any preceding. Minutes were lost while the septuagenarian got down for another cranking up, and then in the old fashion they chugged on again. At this rate it would take them more than half an hour to reach the villa, during which time anything might happen—would happen, in all probability. Still, she resolved not to risk another exhortation to speed, but to trust to luck to send another taxi in her way. She had no money to pay for this one if she abandoned it, but she reflected that she could give the old man her wrist-watch. It was a problem which need not have concerned her. Many taxis whizzed by, but not one was disengaged.

When they mounted the steeper part of the incline the unhappy engine so laboured that each revolution of the wheels threatened to be the last. Still they moved onward with a sort of grim persistence, and it occurred to Esther that if she did not go altogether mad in the interval there might just possibly be a glimmer of hope. They had passed many familiar landmarks; in a sort of fashion they were getting there. She sat on the edge of the lumpy seat, alternately praying and gibbering, her hands clenched, her head throbbing with the sharp pain born of fear.

"Oh, God," she murmured for the twentieth time, "don't let it happen, make him wait till I get there! Oh, God——"

The taxi slowed down with an ominous finality. Again the driver climbed down, fiddled about for several seconds, then with immense deliberation approached and opened the door. "What's the matter? Can't you get on? Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" she cried, ready to shake him.

He shrugged his shoulders and blew his red nose on a huge filthy handkerchief. Then with an air of great philosophy he replied:

"Ca marche plus."

"Comment?" she screamed at him, although she had heard only too well.

"Plus d'essence," he explained briefly, spitting into a puddle. "C'est fini."

There it was concisely; she could take it or leave it. No more petrol, and still at least a mile away from the Villa Firenze. As well write "finis" to her whole desperate attempt. How she had got this far without fainting was almost a miracle; if she tried to walk the remaining distance she was quite certain to fall by the wayside. At the moment the one thing that would have brought her some slight relief would have been to slay this old man—and she had no weapon.

Slowly she got out of the mouldy cab and began automatically to unfasten the strap of her watch. At least she must pay her debts....

"Plus dessence... C'est fini...."

The words rang in her brain like a knell.



CHAPTER XXXI

"Chalmers, was that Mr. Roger who came in? I thought I heard him."

"Yes, miss, he's in his room, but I fancy he's on his way to you. He asked where you were."

Chalmers came a step farther into the room, rubbing his grey chin in an undecided fashion. There was plainly something on his mind.

"I wish, miss, we could manage to keep Mr. Roger from going about in all weathers the way he's doing. With this fever on him I'm afraid he'll come to harm. It fair frightens me to see him looking as he does and taking no care of himself."

The old lady shook her head in despair.

"I know, Chalmers; you are perfectly right—but no matter what I say it does no good. He is worried for fear something has happened to Miss Rowe, and he insists on making efforts to trace her. I'm sure I don't know what to do with him—and he really is ill."

The butler looked at the carpet and cleared his throat slightly, the action constituting a tactful but unequivocal indication that in his own opinion the search for the missing person was a complete waste of energy. Miss Clifford understood the cough, and agreed with its main contention that her nephew was not in a fit condition to be wandering about the streets.

"If you'll pardon the suggestion, miss, hoping you'll not think it's an impertinence, it strikes me the thing to do is first to get Mr. Roger into bed and then to give him a good strong sleeping draught. If he still is bent on going out to-morrow, miss, with your permission I'd take away his clothes."

"It's not a bad idea, Chalmers," replied Miss Clifford, smiling in spite of herself. "But I hope it won't be necessary. He's half promised me to give up the search after to-day—it really seems quite useless—and let us look after him properly. I'm waiting now to hear what news he has; then I shall try to persuade him to go to bed."

"Here is Mr. Roger, now, miss."

He stood aside to admit the young man, who entered with a dragging step, then after a single searching glance at the drawn and haggard face he quietly withdrew. Miss Clifford also scrutinised her nephew closely through her spectacles. He seemed to her appreciably thinner, and there was a feverish glitter in his blue eyes that filled her with alarm.

"Roger, my darling, do please undress and get into bed at once. I will come and talk to you there."

He shook his head obstinately, and sat down on the chaise-longue beside her, deeply dispirited, yet with a look of concentrated purpose.

"I'm not ready to give up," he said slowly. "Not just yet, there's too much to do. However, if it's any satisfaction to you to know, I took my temperature just now to make sure, and as I thought it was a bit lower than it was this time yesterday, I am inclined to think I'm over the worst of this."

"I don't see how you can be; you look very ill indeed," sighed his aunt. "You are only keeping about from sheer will power, and I'm afraid you'll pay for your stubbornness later on. Tell me, though," she went on, slightly lowering her voice. "Is there any news of her?"

He shook his head and drew a long discouraged breath.

"None whatever; not a word, not a sign. It is most mysterious. I've done everything I could think of. There may possibly be a pension or two I haven't discovered, but even so it's very odd that not one of the taxi-drivers in Cannes can recall taking a fare on Tuesday afternoon that answers her description. I've investigated it thoroughly."

"Don't you think the driver may have forgotten?"

"Most unlikely. It was sufficiently odd picking up an American girl in the street with her luggage, to say nothing of the broken-down car; the circumstances were unusual enough to impress themselves on a man's memory for a couple of days at any rate. I have even looked up two chauffeurs who were home ill, but it was no good."

"It is indeed most odd! Have you done anything else?"

"Yes. I've seen the police and reported her as missing."

"Oh!"—in a shocked tone—"Do you consider it as serious as that?"

"What do you think? If Esther were my sister and went off like that, leaving no trace, wouldn't you consider it serious? Here is a young girl in a strange country, without friends. If we don't take an interest in finding her, who will? All sorts of things may have happened to her, things one doesn't like to think about." He moistened his lips, continuing with difficulty. "She may have been decoyed and robbed, or—or even something much worse. It's no good shutting one's eyes to the possibility of it."

His face betrayed the serious disturbance of his thoughts. For several seconds his aunt went on with her knitting. Then laying down her work she said in a guarded tone, glancing at Lady Clifford's door:

"Of course there's one thing that would alter all that. Suppose what Arthur Holliday told Therese wasn't true."

"You mean he may have invented that story of the breakdown? Yes, it's quite possible. Only in that case..."

"Don't misunderstand me, Roger," interrupted the old lady quickly. "I could never bring myself to believe anything wrong of that nice girl, I simply couldn't—that is if she were quite herself, responsible, and all that. Only I can't help wondering if you have heard what the doctor hinted to Therese about Miss Rowe, about his thinking that sometimes she was—was not quite——"

"Has Therese repeated that nonsense to you too?" he demanded angrily.

"Well, I—I admit it startled me very much. I could scarcely believe there was anything in it. I'm sure I never noticed anything the least bit odd about her, and I was amazed to hear that anyone had done so. Yet the doctor is so positive about it, although he hasn't said much. And when a man like that makes a statement, one is almost forced to believe there must be something in it. In any case it occurred to me that if his theory is true she might have left Cannes and gone away, quite forgetting for the moment that she was going to communicate with us. She may even have lost her memory, you know."