CHAPTER XXXI.
FLAMES.
It was past midnight when the muffled figures of Papa and MammaFrancoise emerged stealthily from the tenement house, and took their waytoward the river. Now and then they looked anxiously back, andconstantly kept watch to the right and left.
"Franz and Nance, poor Nance, going--whither?"--page230.]
A little way behind them, two other figures followed; the man halfsupporting, half dragging, a reeling, stupefied girl, and urging heralong by alternate coaxing and threats.
Franz and Nance, poor Nance, going--whither?
Keeping the same path, and always the same brief space between them, thefour moved onward until they were almost at the river. Then, inobedience to a low whistle, Papa and Mamma turned, passed the other two,and retraced their steps swiftly and silently.
When they had gone by, Franz Francoise turned and looked after themuntil their figures had vanished in the darkness.
Then he seized the arm of his companion, and hurried her around thenearest corner and on through the gloom; on till the river was full insight.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Van Vernet, having been brought out from his closet-prison,lay upon the floor of the inner room at the lately-deserted Francoiseabode, still bound, and gagged almost to suffocation, while, to make hisisolation yet more impressive, Mamma had tied a dirty rag tightly abouthis eyes.
Left in doubt as to the fate that awaited him--unable to move, to see,or to use his voice,--Van Vernet lay as helplessly ensnared as if hewere the veriest dullard and bungler, instead of the shrewdest and mostdaring member of the force.
They had transferred him from the closet to his present position inprofound silence. He knew that they were moving about stealthily--hecould guess, from the fact that but one door had been opened, and fromthe short distance they had borne him, that he was in the inner insteadof the outer room--he had heard them moving about in the next room, andhad caught the murmur of their voices as they engaged in what seemed asharp dispute, carried on in guarded tones--then slower movements, sharpwhispers, and finally retreating footsteps, and the careful opening andclosing of a door.
After this, only silence.
Surrounded by the silence and darkness, Van Vernet could only think.What were their intentions? Where had they gone? Would they come back?
Bound and helpless as he was, and menaced by what form of danger he knewnot, his heart still beat regularly, his head was cool, his brain clear.
"They dare not kill me," he thought, "for they can't bury me handily,and are too far from the river. They'd have to leave my body here anddecamp, and they're too shrewd thus to fasten the crime upon themselves.I wish I knew their plans."
By and by, as the silence continued, he began to struggle; not with hisbonds, for he knew that to be useless, but in an effort to propelhimself about the room.
Slowly, with cautious feeling of his way, by bringing his head or feetfirst into contact with the new space to be explored, he made thecircuit of the room; rolling from side to side across the dusty floor,bringing himself up sharply against the walls on either side, in thehope of finding anything--a hook, a nail, a projecting bit ofwood--against which he might rub his head, hoping thus to remove thebandage from his eyes, perhaps the gag from his mouth.
But his efforts were without reward. The room was bare. Not a box, not abit of wood, not a projecting hook or nail; only a few scattering ragswhich, as he rolled among them, baptized him with a cloud of dust andreminded him, by their offensive odor, of the foul cellar in PapaFrancoise's deserted K--street abode.
There was nothing in the room to help him. It was useless to try toliberate himself. And he lay supine once more, cursing the Fate that hadled him into such a trap; and cursing more than all the officious,presumptuous meddler, the jail-bird and ruffian, who had thus entrapped_him_, Van Vernet.
"If I escape," he assured himself, "and I _will_ escape, I'll hunt thatman down! I'll put him behind the bars again if, to do it, I have torenounce the prospect of a double fortune! But I won't renounce it,"thought this hopeful prisoner. "When I find them again, and I will findthem, I'll first capture this convict son, and then use him to extortthe truth from those old pirates--the truth concerning their connectionwith Alan Warburton, aristocrat. And when I have that truth, the highand mighty Warburton will learn what it costs him to send a blackservant to dictate to Van Vernet!"
Easily conceived, this pretty scheme for the future, but its executiondepends upon the liberation of Van Vernet and, just now, that seems animprobable thing.
Moments pass away. They seem like hours to the helpless prisoner; theyhave fitted themselves into one long hour before the silence is broken.
Then he hears, for all his shut-up faculties seemed to have mergedthemselves into hearing, a slight, a very slight sound in the outerroom. The door has opened, some one is entering. More muffled sounds,and Vernet knows that some one is creeping toward the inner room.Slowly, with the least possible noise, that door also opens. He hearslow whispering, and then realizes that two persons approach him. Arethey foes or friends? Oh, for the use of his eyes--for the power tospeak!
Presently hands touch him. Ah, they are about to liberate him; but whyso silent?
They are dexterous, swift-moving hands; but his fetters remain, whilethe swift hands work on.
They are robbing him. First his watch; his pocket-book next; then shirtstuds, sleeve buttons, even his handkerchief.
And still no word is spoken.
He writhes in impotent anger. His brain seems seized with a suddenmadness. These swift, despoiling hands, the darkness, the horriblesilence, appall him--fill him with a sort of supernatural terror.
The hands have ceased their search, and he knows that the two robbershave risen. He feels the near presence of one; the footsteps of theother go from him, toward the street.
A scraping sound; a soft rustle. They are gathering up the rags from thefloor. The closet again: this time it is opened, entered. A moment'sstillness; then a sharp sound, which he knows to be the striking of amatch. Another long silent moment. _What_ are they doing?
Ah! the footsteps retreat. They go toward the outer room; creeping,creeping stealthily.
Now they have crossed the outer room. They go out, and the door issoftly closed.
What does this mystery mean? Have they returned to rob him, and then toleave him? Will they come back yet again?
A moment passes; another, and another. Then a sickening odor penetratesto his nostrils, like the burning of some foul-smelling thing.
Crackle, crackle, crackle!
Ah! he comprehends now! The fiends have fired the closet! They have lefthim there to perish in the flames--the hungry flames that will wipe outall traces of their guilt!
Oh, the unutterable horror that sweeps over him! To die thus: fettered,blinded, powerless to cry for aid! A frenzied madness courses throughhis veins.
Crackle, hiss, roar!
The flames rise and spread. The door of the closet has fallen in, andnow he feels their hot breath. They are closing around him; he issuffocating. He tugs at his fetters with the strength of despair. All isin vain.
Hiss! hiss! hiss!
His brain reels. He is falling, falling, falling. There is a horriblesound in his ears; his eyes see hideous visions; his breath isstrangled; he shudders convulsively, and resigns his hold upon life!
Dangerous Ground; or, The Rival Detectives Page 32
