The Web of the Golden Spider

by Frederick Orin Bartlett

  CHAPTER V

  _In the Dark_

  Wilson made his way into the hall and peered down the dark stairs. Helistened; all was silent. A dozen perfectly simple accidents mighthave caused the sound the three had heard; and yet, although he hadnot made up his mind that the stranger's whole story was not thefabric of delirium, he had an uncomfortable feeling that someonereally was below. Neither seeing nor hearing, he knew by some sixthsense that another human being stood within a few yards of himwaiting. Who that human being was, what he wished, what he was willingto venture was a mystery. Sorez had spoken of the priest--the man whohad stabbed him--but it seemed scarcely probable that after such anact as that a man would break into his victim's house, where thechances were that he was guarded, and make a second attempt. Then herecalled that Sorez was apparently living alone here and thatdoubtless this was known to the mysterious priest. If the golden imagewere the object of his attack, truly it must have some extraordinaryvalue outside its own intrinsic worth. If of solid gold it could beworth but a few hundred dollars. It must, then, be of value becauseof such power as it had exercised over the girl.

  There was not so much as a creak on the floor below, and still hisconviction remained that someone stood there gazing up as he wasstaring down. If only the house were lighted! To go back and get thecandle would be to make a target of himself for anyone determined inhis mission, but he must solve this mystery. The girl expected it ofhim and he was ready to sacrifice his life rather than to stand poorlyin her eyes. He paused at this thought. Until it came to him at thatmoment, in that form, he had not realized anything of the sort. He hadnot realized that she was any more to him now than she had everbeen--yet she had impelled him to do an unusual thing from the first.Yes, he had done for her what he would have done for no other livingwoman. He had helped her out of the clutches of the law, he had beenwilling to strike down an officer if it had been necessary, he hadbroken into a house for her, and now he was willing to risk his life.The thought brought him joy. He smiled, standing there in the dark atthe head of the stairs, that he had in life this new impulse--this newpropelling force. Then he slid his foot forward and stepped down thefirst stair.

  He still had strongly that sense of being watched, but there was nomovement below to indicate that this was anything more than a fancy.Not a sound came from the room he had just left. Evidently the girlwas waiting breathlessly for his return. He must delay no longer. Hemoved on, planning to try the front door and then to examine thewindow by which he himself had entered. These were the only twopossible entrances to the house; the other windows were beyond thereach of anyone without a ladder and were tightly boarded in addition.He found the front door fast locked. It had a patent lock so that thechance of anyone having opened and closed it again was slight. Hebreathed more easily.

  Groping along the hallway he was vividly reminded of the time a fewhours past when the girl had placed her hand within his. It seemed tohim that he now felt the warmth of it--thrilled to the velvet softnessof it--more than he had at the time. He was full of illusions, excitedby all the unusual happenings, and now, as he felt his way along thedark passage, he could have sworn that her fingers still rested uponhis. It made him restless to get back to her. He should not have lefther behind alone and unprotected. It was very possible that this swoonof Sorez' was but a ruse. He must hurry on about his investigation. Hedescended to the lower floor and groped to the laundry. It was stilldark; the earth would not be lighted for another hour. He neitherheard nor saw anything here. But when he reached the window by whichhe himself had entered but which he had closed behind him, he gave astart--it was wide open. It told him of another's presence in thishouse as plainly as if he had seen the person. There was of courseone chance in a hundred that the intruder had become frightened andtaken to his heels. Wilson turned back with fresh fear for the girlwhom he had been forced to leave behind unprotected. If it was true,as the terrified Sorez had feared, that the priest, whoever thismysterious and unscrupulous person might be, had returned to theassault, there certainly was good cause to fear for the safety of thegirl. A man so fanatically inspired as to be willing to commit murderfor the sake of an idol must be half mad. The danger was that thegirl, in the belief which quite evidently now possessed her--that thisgolden thing held the key to her father's whereabouts--might attemptto protect or conceal it. He stumbled up the dark stairs and fell flatagainst the door. It was closed. He tried the knob; the door waslocked. For a moment Wilson could not believe. It was as though in asecond he had found himself thrust utterly out of the house. His firstsuspicion flew to Sorez, but he put this from his mind instantly.There was no acting possible in that man's condition; he was too weakto get down the stairs. But this was no common thief who had donethis, for a thief, once realizing a household is awakened, thinks ofnothing further but flight. It must then be no other than the priestreturned to the quest of his idol.

  Wilson threw his weight against the door, but this was no garden gateto give before such blows. At the end of a half dozen attempts, hepaused, bruised and dizzy. It seemed impossible to force the bolt.Yet no sooner had he reached this conclusion than the necessitybecame compelling; the bolt _must_ be forced. At such moments one'semotions are so intensified that, if there be any hidden passion, itis instantly brought to light. With the impelling need of reaching thegirl's side--a frantic need out of proportion to any normalrelationship between them--Wilson realized partly the instinct whichhad governed him from the moment he had first caught sight of herfeatures in the rain. If at this stage it could not properly be calledlove, it was at least an obsessing passion with all love's attributes.As he paused there in blinding fury at being baffled by this senselesswooden door, he saw her as he had seen the faces between the stars,looking down at him tenderly and trustingly. A lump rose to his throatand his heart grew big within him. There was nothing now--no motive,no ambition, no influence--which could ever control him until afterthis new great need was satisfied. All this came over him in aflash--he saw as one sees an entire landscape by a single stroke oflightning. Then he faced the door once again.

  The simple accident of the muzzle of his revolver striking against thedoor knob furnished Wilson the inspiration for his next attack. Heexamined the cylinder and found that four cartridges remained. Thesewere all. Each one of them was precious and would be doubly so once hewas beyond this barrier. He thrust the muzzle of the revolver into thelock and fired. The bullet ripped and tore and splintered. Again heplaced his shoulder to the door and pushed. It gave a trifle, butstill held. He must sacrifice another cartridge. He shot again andthis time, as he threw his body full against the bolt, it gave. Hefell in atop the debris, but instantly sprang to his feet and stumbledalong the hall to the stairway. He mounted this three steps at a time.At the door to the study he was again checked--there was no lightwithin and no voice to greet him. He called her name; the ensuingsilence was ghastly in its suggestiveness. He started through thedoor, but a slight rustling or creak caused him to dart back, and aknife in the hand of some unknown assailant missed him by a margin soslight that his sleeve was ripped from elbow to wrist.

  With cocked revolver Wilson waited for the rush which he expected tofollow immediately. Save that the curtains before him swayed slightly,there was nothing to show that he was not the only human being in thehouse. Sorez might still be within unconscious, but what of the girl?He called her name. There was no reply. He dashed through thecurtains--for the sixteenth of a second felt the sting of a heavy blowon his scalp, and then fell forward, the world swirling into a blackpit at his feet.

  When Wilson came to himself he realized that he was in some sort ofvehicle. The morning light had come at last--a cold, luminous graywash scarcely yet of sufficient intensity to do more than outline theworld. He attempted to rise, but fell back weakly. He felt his neckand the collar of the luxurious bath robe he still wore to be wet. Itwas a sticky sort of dampness. He moved his hand up farther and foundhis hair to be matted. His fingers came in contact with raw flesh,
causing him to draw them back quickly. The carriage jounced over theroadbed as though the horses were moving at a gallop. For a fewmoments he was unable to associate himself with the past at all; itwas as though he had come upon himself in this situation as upon astranger. The driver without the closed carriage seemed bent upon somedefinite enough errand, turning corners, galloping up this street andacross that. He tried to make the fellow hear him, but above therattling noise this was impossible. There seemed to be nothing to dobut to lie there until the end of the journey, wherever that mightbe.

  * * * * *

  He lay back and tried to delve into the past. The first connectinglink seemed years ago,--he was running away from something, her handwithin his. The girl--yes, he remembered now, but still veryindistinctly. But soon with a great influx of joy he recalled thatmoment at the door when he had realized what she meant to him, thenthe blind pounding at the door, then the run upstairs and--this.

  He struggled to his elbow. He must get back to her. How had he comehere? Where was he being taken? He was not able to think very clearlyand so found it difficult to devise any plan of action, but thenecessity drove him on as it had in the face of the locked door. Hemust stop the carriage and--but even as he was exerting himself in astruggle to make himself heard, the horses slowed down, turned sharplyand trotted up a driveway to the entrance of a large stone building.Some sort of an attendant came out, exchanged a few words with thedriver, and then, opening the door, looked in. He reached out his handand groped for Wilson's pulse.

  "Where am I?" asked Wilson.

  "That's all right, old man," replied the attendant in the paternaltone of those in lesser official positions. "Able to walk, or shall Iget a stretcher?"

  "Walk? Of course I can walk. What I want to know is----"

  But already the strong arms were beneath his shoulders and halflifting him from the seat.

  "Slowly. Slowly now."

  Wilson found himself in a corridor strong with the fumes of ether andcarbolic acid.

  "See here," he expostulated, "I didn't want to come here. I----where'sthe driver?"

  "He went off as soon as you got out."

  "But where----"

  "Come on. This is the City Hospital and you're hurt. The quicker youget that scalp of yours sewed up the better."

  For a few steps Wilson walked along submissively, his brain stillconfused. The thought of her came once again, and he struggled freefrom the detaining arm and turned upon the attendant who was leadinghim to the accident room.

  "I'm going back," he declared. "This is some conspiracy against thegirl. I'll find out what it is--and I'll----"

  "The sooner you get that scalp fixed," interrupted the attendant, "thesooner you'll find the girl."

  The details of the next hour were blurred to him. He remembered thearrival of the brisk young surgeon, remembered his irritated greetingat sight of him--"Another drunken row, I suppose"--and the sharp fighthe put up against taking ether. He had but one thought in mind--hemust not lose consciousness, for he must get back to the girl. So hefought until two strong men came in and sat one on his chest and oneon his knees. When he came out of this he was nicely tucked in bed.They told him that probably he must stay there three or fourdays--there was danger of the wound growing septic.

  Wilson stared at the pretty nurse a moment and then asked, "I beg yourpardon--how long did you say?"

  "Three days anyway, and possibly longer."

  "Not over three hours longer," he replied.

  She smiled, but shook her head and moved away.

  It was broad daylight now. He felt of his head--it was done up inturban-like bandages. He looked around for his clothes; they were putaway. The problem of getting out looked a difficult one. But he must.He tried again to think back as to what had happened to him. Who hadplaced him in the carriage and given orders to the driver? Had itbeen done to get rid of him or out of kindness? Had it been done bythe priest or by Sorez? Above all, what in the meanwhile had become ofhis comrade?

  When the visiting surgeon came in, Wilson told him quite simply thathe must leave at once.

  "Better stay, boy. A day here now may save you a month."

  "A day here now might spoil my life."

  "A day outside might cost it."

  "I'm willing."

  "Well, we can't hold you against your will. But think again; you'vereceived an ugly blow there and it has left you weak."

  Wilson shook his head.

  "I must get out of here at once, whatever the cost."

  The surgeon indifferently signed the order for his release and movedon. The nurse brought his clothes. His only outside garment was thelong, gold embroidered lounging robe he had thrown on while his ownclothes were drying. He stared at it helplessly. Then he put in on. Itdid not matter--nothing mattered but getting back to her as soon aspossible.

  A few minutes later the citizens of Boston turned to smile at thesight of a young man with pale, drawn face hurrying through thestreets wearing a white linen turban and an oriental robe. He sawnothing of them.