Chapter XXIX.
On the Top Floor
Table of Contents
It was dark now within and without. The man's footsteps crossed the room, and then a door opened and shut. Instantly, Stranway climbed noiselessly over the sill into the room.
The top floor! Granted that he was not seen, he could reach there ahead of the others, for they would still be busily engaged in changing their clothes and bringing in the cans of kerosene from the garage.
Stranway crossed the room, groped for the door knob, found it, opened the door quietly, and stepped over the threshold.
A faint light that sifted through a partially opened door somewhere at the rear of what, as he had rather expected, was a hall, and from which, too, there now came the sound of the men's voices again, enabled him to make out indistinctly a wide staircase immediately in front of him. A strange, musty smell assailed his nostrils. Also, queer, misty, white shapes loomed up here and there around him, one of which, on the wall near him, was just shoulder high. He reached up and felt over it with his hand. It was a large framed picture covered with a cotton sheet. It was apparent enough, as the man who had played the part of the butler had said, that the house had been long closed up—the previous occupants, evidently, desiring to sell it as it stood, furniture and all.
He mounted the stairs cautiously, gained the first landing, and stopped to listen. The men were still talking down there below. How much time had he? How long would it be before they were coming up the stairs?
The thought spurred him to quicker action, and he ran along the hall. It was dark now, almost absolutely black, but the banister rail, he found, continued on along the hall, as a guard, obviously, to what would otherwise have been an unprotected stair-well. Five minutes? Certainly, he could count on no more than that at most.
Five minutes! He was on the second flight of stairs now. Five minutes—in utter darkness—to find this "other one" that they had talked about—to find some way of outwitting that pack of human wolves below! Again the banister guided him, this time along the second hallway; but now, suddenly it brought him violently up against a dead wall. This was the top floor, then—the house was only three stories high. Somewhere here, therefore, was the one he sought. But where? In one of the rooms? Yes; of course! There was no other logical answer to the question. Five minutes! Only four now! He was tempted to light a match, but the thought of the stair-well that opened straight down to the hall on the ground floor held him back. As well risk a torch! In the intense blackness even a match flame would attract instant attention if, by an unlucky chance, any one of the four men happened to be passing through the hall below at the moment.
Whatever rooms were in his immediate neighbourhood, must, of course, open off the other side of the hall facing the banister. He crossed the hall, and found a door. It was not locked. He opened it, and called out softly. There was no response, no movement from within, no sound of breathing, only that mustiness and that heavy, pulsing blackness. He tried the next door, and the next, and still two more, with the same result.
And then for an instant Stranway stood motionless, listening again intently, his face rigid, his jaws clamped hard together. There could be very little time left. He dared not reckon how much of it had gone—but, at least, there was no sound yet from below. The last account! He smiled bitterly. Yes; it looked like it now! The last account—for Charlebois, gentle, kindly, tender-hearted Charlebois—for that other life—and for his own!
Was there still another door? He could not see. He had traversed the entire length of the hall, and was on his way back now, on the same side as the stair-well, for at this end of the hall there had been rooms on each side. But he had already tried two here, and he could not now be more than two or three yards away from the head of the staircase again. No—he had misjudged the distance. There was another room, but unquestionably the last one this time.
His hand had fallen on the door knob, and now he opened the door and once more called out softly. He called out again—and hung there hesitant and beaten. It was an absolute certainty now that there were no more rooms on the top floor. And then the blood seemed to run suddenly cold in his veins. Was there another staircase—another wing to the house? The place looked big enough from the outside to make that more than a possibility. Was he, after all, in the wrong part of the house? Once more the bitter smile moved his lips. Fate was playing a grim hand to-night, and——
He was still at the doorway. Had he imagined it—or was there some one inside? Faint, low, indistinct, came a sound, that, as nearly as he could define it, was like something rubbing and rustling on the floor. Instantly he stepped inside the room, and this time closed the door behind him.
"Is anyone here?" he asked tensely. "I'm a friend—Stranway. Answer me!"
There was no reply; only the same sound—but now it was louder, with a strange persistency about it as though it were trying desperately to attract his attention. He took a match from his pocket, struck it—and, while a second passed, stood there a prey, it seemed, to every emotion that the human soul could know. Fierce ecstasy, a mad joy, a wild terror, hope, despair—one and all were his, as the match spurted into flame. On the floor before him, almost at his feet, lay the Orchid, her slim, black-gowned form tightly bound with heavy cord, a gag brutally covering the lower part of her face.
And then a low, inarticulate cry came from Stranway's lips, as he sprang forward and dropped on his knees beside her. The Orchid! The woman he loved—who loved him! Hers, then, was the "other life" in peril—the last account before the Red Ledger was closed forever! His brain was racing madly. The last account! It linked her now irrefutably with that manuscript Charlebois had given him to read. There had been nothing last night, when he had read the story, to suggest that she had any connection with it, but now—yes, he was sure of it, sure that he knew. The child of nineteen years ago was the Orchid of to-day! He had torn the gag from her mouth, and his knife was busy with the cords around her.
"Ewen!" she said faintly. "You—oh, Ewen!"
It was the first time he had ever heard his name from her lips, and it thrilled him now and set the blood pounding wildly at his heart. And now the cords were gone, and he lifted her to her feet, and into his arms—and crushed her to him. And there in the blackness for one great moment, the greatest he had known in all his life, his lips found hers, and her eyelids, and buried themselves in her hair, and pressed against the white, rounded throat as she lay in his embrace.
"I love you," he whispered hoarsely. "I love you."
She drew back from him, half sobbing, half laughing—and he felt her sway suddenly upon her feet.
"You are weak!" he cried—and caught her close to him again.
"I have been here a long time—since dark," she said. "The cords were very tight. I—I was afraid that no one would come until it was too late. But now it is all right, isn't it? And in a little while when the stiffness is gone I shall be able to walk all right."
"There is no time to wait for that," he answered. "I'll carry you, and——"
"Ewen—what do you mean?" Her hand closed tightly over his, holding him back. "Haven't you plenty of men with you? Isn't everything all right?"
"No," he said hurriedly. "You and I are alone in the house, except for those devils below, who, I suppose, brought you here. They'll be upstairs any moment now, and unless we can get down before they come we're trapped."
She made no answer, said no word; only her hand closed again in a little pressure over his, as he took her up in his arms and began to make his way toward the door.
"You are a brave little woman," he said huskily, "and it would only make matters worse if I attempted to deceive you. You—we have been in peril before But to-night I do not know. We—we may never come through this. There may never be another chance, but this moment at least is ours and you are mine now, dear, you know, and so I want to know, not all your secret, there is not time for that, but just your name."
It seemed to
Stranway that she drew herself a little closer to him before she answered.
"I cannot tell you," she said wistfully, "because—because I do not know myself. Of course, in the outside world, I have had to be Miss Judson, or Miss Somebody-else equally fictitious; but here in the organisation since the time I was a little girl and Charlebois gave me the name because I was so fond of the flower, I have always been called the Orchid. Indeed those were his positive instructions, and I have never been known by any other name at Dominic Court. And—and that was why I—I never gave you a chance to—oh, you will understand, won't you? I was very sensitive about it from the first—with you. I was afraid that you would think it silly, absurd, a pose on my part to be called the Orchid—and, oh, I had a hundred other thoughts, but I did not know my own name, and so——"
"But at the last!" he broke in eagerly. "That night when we were after Krinler! You came to me of your own accord, and that night I was very sure you would not have tried to find a way to leave me as you had always done before."
"It was different that night," she whispered. "Nothing mattered then but you. The danger that you were in frightened me, and that night I—I knew I loved you, Ewen."
"Thank God!" he said fervently under his breath; and then in puzzlement: "But for a year after that you kept away from me, dear."
"I had nothing to do with that," she answered. "It was dear old Charlebois. He sent me away the next day, and I have been virtually in hiding ever since. Why, I do not know. But he promised that he would explain everything to-night."
To-night! Charlebois would explain to-night! For a moment that scene in the Red Room rushed back upon Stranway, and a sudden mist was in his eyes, and he could make no answer.
She seemed to sense disaster in his silence.
"Ewen—what is it?" she breathed.
He was at the door now, groping for the knob with his clasped hands as he held her—and still he did not answer.
"Ewen—what is it?" she urged again. "Oh, I begin to see! Something terrible has happened! Something has gone wrong, fearfully wrong—or we would not be here with this danger threatening us. Charlebois—is it Charlebois? Tell me!"
"Yes," said Stranway, in a monotone. "Charlebois was shot to-night—two hours ago—by one of those fiends who is downstairs now."
A little cry came from her—of horror, of infinite distress.
"He is—dead?" she questioned brokenly
"I do not know," Stranway replied in the same monotone; then quickly: "I cannot find the door knob. Reach down and see if you can feel it—can you?"
"Yes," she answered, after an instant. "Here it is. It's turned now—but put me down, I'm sure I can manage."
"No," he said; "we can do better as we are. We must not make the slightest noise, and even if you could walk at all, you couldn't walk steadily enough for that. Now pull the door open as I step back. Be careful! Don't let it creak!"
Inch by inch, silently, the door swung back. Stranway stepped over the threshold, took another step forward along the hall—and the next instant stood motionless as the Orchid's arms tightened suddenly around him.
"Listen!" she whispered. "Listen—they are coming now!"
But he, too, had heard.
From the hallway below, already past the first flight of stairs, came the sound of footsteps. Instantly Stranway turned, stepped back into the room, and set the Orchid down.
"Stay here!" he said below his breath. "Don't make a sound! Don't leave the room unless I call you!"
"But you?" She reached out her arms to him, trying to hold him back as he turned away. "But you—what are you——"
"I'm going to take the only chance there is," he said quietly—and, drawing the door noiselessly shut behind him, he stepped again into the hall.
The footsteps were on the lower stairs of the second flight now—almost upon him. Grimly, a merciless smile on his set lips, Stranway reached to his hip pocket for his automatic—and then he felt the blood ebb from his face, and his heart seemed to sink within him.
The pocket was empty!
Chapter XXX.
The Fight
Table of Contents
Stranway was searching desperately now through his other pockets on the chance that he might merely have misplaced the automatic. No—it was gone! He had had it when he had left his rooms to go to Dominic Court, for he remembered distinctly having put it in his pocket—but it was gone now. It must have dropped from his pocket when he was crawling under the car out there on the road with Flint! In any case it was gone, and he was weaponless. With a pistol he might have held the top of the stairs, but now—— There were four of them! He might account for one or two, but after that—what?
For an instant upon Stranway came fear, deadly, cold, such as he had never known before—not for himself, there was no room for thought of self now, but for the Orchid whose only hope lay in him. Her hair seemed to float again across his cheek, the dark eyes, wistful, full of tender light and trust, to look into his own, and through that agony of fear flashed pictures of long years of the might-have-been, of love and happiness, full of her presence and companionship. For a moment it unnerved him—and then there swept upon him a seething fury, a mad desire for vengeance, a fierce elemental passion that overrode all else.
Like a crouched tiger, Stranway, his body poised a little forward over the topmost stair, waited silently. Up one stair after another came the footsteps—of one man. The masquerading butler, beyond question! Stranway could just make out the other's shape, irregular, without form, just something a little blacker than the surrounding blackness. Then, suddenly, little flickering gleams of light began to come from the hall below—other footsteps—the bumping of tin cans—smothered oaths. The other three, carrying candles and the kerosene, were not far behind the leader!
But on the stairway itself there was as yet just the one shadow upon which Stranway's eyes were set. The shadow bulked larger, coming nearer and nearer. The man could be no more than three steps below him—he could hear the other's breathing now.
Nearer—another step—another! And then Stranway's arms shot out, and, wrapping themselves around the other's knees, tightened like bars of steel. It was lightning quick, the space of time it might take a watch to tick, while Stranway's shoulders heaved upward as though his whole body had been loosed like some Titanic spring. There was a cry, wild, terror-stricken—and from shoulder high he hurled the other from him down the stairs.
There was a thud, a queer crunching sound—an instant's silence—then a chorus of cries, the rush of feet, and the flickering lights had gathered around the foot of the stairs.
Fighting for his breath, and back a little from the edge of the top stair now, Stranway watched the scene below, thankful for a moment's respite. Candles in hand, the three men stared dazedly at the curled heap at their feet, at each other, and, through the darkness, toward the head of the stairs; then they bent over the quasi-butler and began to examine him more closely. "That's blasted queer!" growled one. "He must have fallen the whole length somehow. Nice mess for us! Looks like he's broken his neck."
"No; he hasn't!" It was Jake's voice now. "He's stunned, that's all. He's coming around now."
A touch fell on Stranway's shoulder—it was the Orchid.
"Ewen," she breathed in his ear, "I can't stay in there! I must do something to help. Tell me what to do! I can walk better now."
His hand closed over hers.
"Try the end of the hall and see if there's a way to get out on the roof," he whispered; "or try the front room windows for a balcony."
There was the faintest rustle of garments—too low for the preoccupied men below to hear—and she was gone.
Stranway's eyes had never left the group below him at the foot of the stairs. They had set their candles down, and had propped the man up now in a sitting posture against the wall; and, as Jake had said, the fellow seemed to be coming around, for he moaned and lifted his hand to his head.
"What happened you?"
demanded Jake. "Did you trip? I told you to take a light."
The man appeared to rouse himself with a sudden effort.
"Trip, you fool!" he snarled. "I didn't trip! There's some one else up there—besides her. Do you hear? There's some one else—and you've got to get him, or we're done. He's trapped up there and he can't get away. Go on—get him—get him!"
A low, sullen, vicious oath purled from Jake's lips: "Didn't I tell you I felt like some one was watching me down there? And I'll bet he was, too—and that he sneaked in after we left the room! If he heard what we said, he's got enough on us to send us to the chair!"
"Maybe!" put in one of the others, with a nasty laugh. "Only he'll never get the chance. Come on, now—rush him!"
The man sprang forward as he spoke, Jake close beside him, the third man in the rear. On they came racing up the stairs; but it was not until they were almost on the top tread that, in the darkness, for the candles below did little more than multiply the shadows, they caught their first glimpse of Stranway—and coincidentally Stranway's fist shot out and smashed with all his weight behind the blow into the nearest face. The man staggered and reeled backward—but at the same instant, and from just behind the first man, another one leaped forward.
Stranway gave back a step to elude this second rush; and again, with every pound that was in him, struck once more—and missed. The man had outguessed him by dropping cleverly to his knees on the top stair. And from this man there came then a jeering laugh—but it was lost the next instant in a fierce exchange of blows, and panting breaths, and the short, hoarse grunts of straining men, as Stranway, carrying the fight to his antagonists, drove in upon them with savage ferocity.
As long as he could keep them on the stairs only two could get at him at once, and even then they were in each other's way. That was why, he kept telling himself now as he fought, he had chosen the head of the stairs to make his stand; kept telling himself over and over that they must not gain a footing on the landing—for a little while at least. He couldn't hold the stairhead forever, of course; the odds were too heavy—but for a little while—until, pray God, she should have found some way out.
The Red Ledger Page 24
