Читать книгу Paul Quentin - Fred M. White - Страница 8

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There was plenty of time; in fact, time was in his favour. He knew that there was something to learn, and that without the slightest suspicion being aroused in the breast of the man with the revolver, who still pursued his promenade.

"A very good story." Dugdale said indifferently; "but rather far-fetched. I can understand how it would get on anybody's nerves late at night. I hope that it didn't serve you so."

"Indeed, it did," Miss Pearson replied. "I am not likely to forget it. Every sound I hear sets my nerves throbbing. I am like Edgar Allan Poe when he wrote that verse in 'The Raven.' You know the one I mean?"

"I am afraid I don't," Dugdale answered.

"I thought you would. It is this one:—

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustle of each purple curtain,

Filled me—thrilled me, with fantastic terrors never felt before.

Do you follow me?"

Dugdale followed rightly enough. He turned his glance towards the purple curtains hanging over the conservatory door. He saw them fluttering in the breeze. He knew as certainly as if the girl had put it in the plainest words that the key to the situation lay behind those rustling draperies. He checked a wild impulse to rise to his feet and satisfy himself there and then. More prudent counsel prevailed. But cool and collected as he was, he felt a thrill creeping up his spine to the roots of his hair as his imagination played freely on what lay behind those fluttering hangings. It was the more necessary to observe caution, for the doctor stood by smiling as if more or less interested in the conversation. There was a paternal look upon his face, but the hand that held the revolver was hard and knotted, and the gleam in the dark eyes had not lessened or softened for an instant. Dugdale had formed his line of action. He might have waited longer, but his experienced eye told him that the strain was growing more than the girl could bear. She had held to her high courage as women will do when they are alone, but now that she had a man to share her peril the links of her endurance were stretched to the breaking-point. Casually, enough, Dugdale rose to his feet, and strode across the room.

"Don't you find it warm, Miss Pearson?" he asked. "Would you mind if I drew the curtains back?"

Prince laid a detaining hand upon his arm.

"No," he said emphatically. "I am sure that Miss Pearson decidedly objects."

There was challenge in the speaker's voice and Dugdale hesitated. Then there came an extra puff of wind from the outside, and the curtains streamed out into the room like purple banners. They disclosed a small room beyond brilliantly lighted. In the centre of the room a man in livery lay half back in a chair. He appeared to be young, he was clean-shaven. There was a hideous wound in the centre of his forehead from whence the blood had trickled over his face. The man was huddled up in his chair, stiff and motionless. It was only for an instant that this weird vision disclosed itself before the breeze died down again, and the curtains fell back in their place. But the doctor had seen it, and each knew what was passing in the mind of the other. For an instant there was a dramatic pause before the doctor's arm came up sharply, and Dugdale saw that it was time to act. He jumped suddenly forward without a word of warning, and caught the doctor by the throat.

There was no disguising the matter now, no time to play for diplomacy. Almost before the hideous picture had been shut out, Dugdale knew that it would be a fight for life between his opponent and himself. He was thinking no longer about the girl. The beautiful vision of the perfectly-appointed room faded from his eyes. He saw nothing but a keen, hard, clean-shaven face set murderously close to his own. He could feel nothing but an arm twisted about his neck, gripping with a force of steel and whipcord.

"Why did you come here?" a hoarse voice whispered in his ear. "Why didn't you stay away, you fool?"

"I don't understand what you mean," Dugdale stammered, never letting his grip slacken for a moment.

"Oh yes you do. You understand perfectly well. Ah, I see what she meant now. I know all about the rustle of the purple curtains. I was a dolt and an imbecile not to guess it when she spoke. Now then, it is you or me!"

Dugdale wasted no breath in further words. He wanted all his strength and resolution and cunning to get the better of the man who held him in such a close grip. There was no longer any doubt what price the loser would pay for failure. They swayed backwards and forwards over the treacherous polished floor. Dugdale could feel the carpet slipping under his heel, and a queer cry rose to his lips that he might not be the first to fall. The unuttered thought had barely escaped him before he came down with a hideous crash with the full force of the doctor's weight upon his chest. With every nerve and muscle bent and warped to the exclusion of every thought and feeling he was not unmindful of a subtle perfume which assailed his nostrils. Dimly he wondered what it was, and why the woman he had come to save was so near him. He seemed to see the motion of her arms, and the play of light on her dazzling shoulders. The doctor had his right arm free. There was a blinding flash and a report, and something hot and stinging seared Dugdale's cheek.

"Turn over on the other side," a voice whispered. "I have hold of his arm. Do you hear me?"

Dugdale heard clearly enough. He caught a muttered oath from his assailant. He felt the grip on his neck relax, and he knew that his chance had come. His right arm was drawn back, and he jabbed out viciously with all the force of despairing anger and caught the doctor a shrewd blow on the apple of his throat. He heard the snort and gurgle which followed. He felt a slackening of the muscles of the man who held him, and instantly he was kneeling upon Dr Prince's chest and holding his head upon the floor. A blind triumph filled him. He raised the lean, close-cropped head, and brought it sharply upon the boards twice with a quick thud. He saw the life and colour rush from the madman's cheeks, and the eyes turned up till nothing but the quivering whites remained. A second later he was on his feet panting and trembling, with Miss Pearson leaning heavily on his shoulder.

"You have killed him," she gasped.

"I think not," Dugdale said. "It is an old trick I learnt in the States. He will be quite right in a minute or two. Meanwhile, I had better remove his revolver, and tie his hands. Will you pull down one of those curtain cords? They will suit my purpose. And let me congratulate you upon the pluck——"

But Dugdale was talking to empty air, for the girl had swayed towards him, and if he had not caught her, she would have fallen to the floor. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be half-insensible, though she was muttering something which Dugdale could not catch. He bent closer to listen and presently the words began to be more coherent and logical.

"Don't let him have it," she said with her eyes still closed, "whatever you do, don't let him have it! It does not belong to him. Whatever they may say, it is ours, and always has been ours. Send him away before it is too late."

Dugdale's position was sufficiently awkward. Prince lay grinning horribly, his eyes rolling from side to side, and every now and again he uttered some fearful threat. Dugdale was at his wits' end to know what to do, or how to act for the best. It was useless to ring, seeing there was not a servant in the house. He durst not leave the half-fainting girl whilst he went for assistance. From the bottom of his heart he longed to know what the girl was talking about, and what it was that she was afraid of losing.

"Courage," he whispered, "courage. Hold up your head and try to realise there is no longer any danger."

The words gave her fresh strength, for she opened her eyes and smiled faintly. She murmured that the room was hot and close, and that she needed air.

Accordingly, Dugdale laid his fair burden down on a sofa and crossed over towards the purple curtains, still fluttering in the breeze. A cry of half-inarticulate rage broke from Prince, as Dugdale drew them aside.

But the latter did not hear. He was too astonished to grasp anything for the time. In the alcove behind the curtains where the electric light was burning, the figure of a young man lay partly on the floor, partly on a chair—a young man dressed as a livery servant, and, to all appearances, dead. But it was not this that excited Dugdale's surprise, for he saw before him a latticed window and against this a quaint Chippendale stand. And on the stand stood an object gleaming in gold and blue and purple.

It was the Dragon Vase!