Читать книгу A King by Night - Edgar Wallace - Страница 10

The full moon was riding in the sky, and the night was close, oppressive. Wrapped in a light dressing-gown, Gwendda sat at the window of her darkened room, looking out over Pall Mall, her mind intent upon the problems which faced her. She had started well, she thought. She liked the doctor; there was something very human, very kindly about him. She was impressed by the suggestion of his capability, the latent strength in him, and felt that here at least she had made one powerful ally. Nevertheless, there was cause for uneasiness. Who had followed them? Who was sufficiently interested in her movements to shadow her? Perhaps the doctor was mistaken, and the appearance of the car behind them was a coincidence which might easily be accounted for, and had some simple explanation.

She was very wide awake, although she had risen early that morning and had been on deck long before the big liner had come within sight of the English coast. Turning on the light, she took up the English newspapers which had been brought to her room, and examined them with professional interest. They seemed singularly dull compared with the press with which she was so much better acquainted.

And then a headline caught her eye, and she read the story of the Terror. And, reading, she shivered. There was something in the account of this sinister apparition that seemed especially terrifying to her.

She put down the paper hastily, and, opening her trunk, sought for more sedative reading. Locking the door, she slipped off her dressing-gown and got into bed, and for an hour tried vainly to concentrate her mind upon her book. A church clock was striking one when she finally gave up the attempt, and, putting the book on the bedside table, switched out the light and composed herself for sleep. The half-hour struck, then two boomed forth, and then she must have dozed. In her dreams she heard three chime, and was instantly wide awake. It was not the sound of the clock striking that had awakened her: it was the consciousness of peril.

She sat up in bed and listened, but for a time heard nothing. Then there came to her the sound of deep, irregular breathing. It did not come from within the room, but from the corridor without. She was out of bed in an instant and went toward the door. She heard it again—an indescribable sound. Perhaps it was somebody who had been taken ill?

She put her hand on the knob of the door, and, as she did so, she almost swooned, for the knob turned slowly in her hand. Whoever it was outside the door was trying to get into the room! For a second she stood breathless, leaning against the wall, her heart thumping painfully, then:

"Who's there?" she whispered.

The answer was unexpected. Some huge body was suddenly flung at the panel, and she felt it sag under the weight. She stood, paralysed with fear, and then a hollow voice came to her through the keyhole.

"Open the door, you devil! It is the King of Bonginda—obey!"

The voice was a harsh, slurred growl of sound. And then she realized, and all the blood left her face. The Terror! This uncouth thing that haunted the countryside, this huge, obscene shape!

Was she in the throes of some fearful nightmare? Again came the strain at the door, and she looked round wildly for a way of escape. The window was open, but there was no way to safety. Even as she looked, there came the second shock. She saw a hand reach up from the darkness and grip the-window-sill; and while she stood, incapable of movement, a head appeared. The moonlight showed a glistening, bald pate, and as the intruder turned his head, two white discs of light gleamed from his eyes. In another second he was in the room.