Clement Seadon went to his room with a certain geniality in his heart.
When making his reservation at the reception counter he had carefully studied the room bookings before his name. The clerk had said to him,“I’ll give you a nice room on the fifth floor, Mr. Seadon. A good room. Overlooks Dufferin Terrace and the river. One of the best rooms we’ve got.”
“I know it,” said Clement pleasantly. “Ripping view.... Have you anything on the same gallery as 359? I don’t mind if there isn’t a view.”
“Why, yes,” said the clerk, “I can give you 362. It’s round the corner, but it’s on the same floor and only three doors away. Same view, too. It’s an intercommunicating bathroom, but locked on your side, of course. You’ll like that room.”
Clement Seadon hastily scanned the names above his. Who had room 361—on the other side of his intercommunicating bathroom? His heart beat. He said,
“You’re right. I fancy I shall more than like room 362.”
The name against room 361 was “Adolf Neuburg.”
The Frontenac has two lifts. As Clement knew this brilliant hotel quite well, he could choose his lift with cunning and so could get into his room without being seen on the gallery in which Mr. Neuburg had his door.
There was a matter for further satisfaction, and also, it must be said, for a certain anxiety in this business of rooms. He had had luck in getting a room next Mr. Neuburg’s. His choice of thegallery itself had been deliberate. Heloise Reys had her room on that gallery.
He had looked for her name at once, before he had sought out the name attached to room 361. He had seen that the room booked to Heloise Reys was 359. The room booked to Méduse Smythe, the companion, was 360—it was to be expected. They had rooms together—probably also with a communicating bathroom. It was only when he had discovered Mr. Neuburg’s room that a feeling of anxiety crept into his thoughts. For, obviously, Mr. Neuburg had the room next Méduse Smythe. The gang had deliberately arranged to group themselves—and their victim—together. It probably went without saying that Méduse, the Gorgon, and Mr. Neuburg also had a communicating bathroom. They were all in rooms in line, the victim, Heloise, the gang, and himself.
Clement went quickly to his room, left the door ajar, so that he would not have to call out when the baggage man brought his baggage up—to call out loud would be to warn Mr. Neuburg—and went very quietly into his own bathroom. He felt the handle of his own internal door, found it bolted, slipped the bolt, and carefully opened it. The door of Mr. Neuburg’s room (there were double doors separating the rooms) was shut, and it was probably bolted; anyhow, Clement was not going to attract attention by trying the handle. What mattered was that there was only a singlethickness of door between him and the master villain. He could hear the mountain of a man moving about quietly inside his room. He heard him mutter an angry oath—probably directed at his own (Clement’s) head; then, luck of luck, he heard him use his telephone. It was of no importance. He was merely demanding his baggage from the porter, but it gave Clement the knowledge that, unless Mr. Neuburg whispered, it would be quite delightfully easy to overhear his conversations. Nothing more happened then, and Clement closed his own door again—and bolted it—as he heard the baggage man’s trolley coming along the passage.
Only when that fellow had gone did he bolt his outer door, slip into the bathroom, and wait for a conversation he thought was bound to come. Mr. Neuburg, he felt, must open his bruised heart to the companion Méduse.
He had some time to wait, but he did not mind. He was feeling satisfied with events. He had these devils on the hip. There was no doubt of that. They had given him definite facts to put before Heloise. He could go straight to her now and tell her how the lawyer’s letter had been stolen from him in order that Méduse Smythe could work on her feelings, and how the rogues had endeavored to get him out of the way with the business of the tiara.
They were bold, were they? He was going tobe bold, too. Heloise should have the cold facts without apology. He was more than certain how a clearly honest nature like hers would view the revelations. Neuburg was done, Méduse was done, Gunning was done—the plot was ended.
As he decided this in his mind, he heard a sound from the room beyond the door.
“Aah ... it is all right, Méduse? You are free.... You are alone for a few minutes?” ... A deep, slightly muffled voice said these words curiously close to Clement Seadon’s ear.
It was Mr. Neuburg speaking. The companion Méduse had come into the room on the other side of the bathroom door.
“Don’t talk, woman,” said Mr. Neuburg’s voice. “He is here, in this hotel.”
“He ... who?” gasped a female voice. It was a little fainter than Mr. Neuburg’s, who, Clement was delighted to hear, was in that masculine condition of rage when he must “take it out” on some one.
“Don’t be a dense fool,” the big man snapped. “He ...! Who ...! The Englishman, ninny. Is there another?”
“It is impossible. He has been arrested.”
“Pah! Do I have to keep on saying it? He is here. He has not been arrested. He is somewherein this hotelnow. The Englishman, Clement Seadon, is here. He is free. Do you begin to gather ... just a glimmer, woman?”
“But”—the woman’s voice was almost scandalized—“but he was to have been arrested. Molke was to see to it that he was arrested.”
“And he is not arrested. It is Molke who has been arrested.”
Clement heard the creak of a chair. The news had been too much for the amiable Méduse. She had had to sit down—and sit down hard. He would have liked to chuckle. He dare not. The snarling voice of the mountainous Mr. Neuburg said with bitter passion, “Ah, you begin to see. Something active begins to stir in your head. And you are shocked. Well, I did not thrill with joy myself.... No, I do not know how it happened. I only know I set Molke to effect this Englishman’s arrest, and it doesn’t happen; it is Molke who is arrested instead.”
“Yes; but that—thatEnglishman,” protested an incredulous female voice.
“Yes—thatEnglishman. Only, my dear Méduse, say ‘that Englishman’ with more respect. I assure you, he is like that. He does not look like intelligence at all. He looks a mere decoration. He looks a mere easy-going, meaningless, drawing-room young man without any wits of his own.... And—and it is Molke who is arrested after all. Just appreciate the fact, my dear. That is theAnglo-Saxon. He does not look like anything in particular, and you find him sitting firmly on top of you just at that moment when you are beginning to rub your hands over the clever way you have knocked him down?”
“But—but Molke had him so tight.”
“So tight,” snarled Mr. Neuburg, “that Mr. Clement Seadon walked smiling and calm into the lobby of the hotel, and still smiling, still calm, told me to my face that he had beaten me at my own game.”
“He—hetoldyouto your face?”
“In his own way, of course. He told me that he was not in prison, but that the steward Molke was.... I am not so dull that I did not understand him completely. But—but, you see what it means?”
“That—that”—the woman was a little flustered before the bullying anger of her companion—“that means he is still a danger we have to contend with.”
“Women”—said the mountainous Mr. Neuburg—“women are the apostles of the obvious. Yes, he is a danger we have to contend with, my dear. Only he is something more. It means thathethinksweare a danger that no longer counts.... I see I will have to explain. This is truly your day for being heroically dull. This man who looks foolish is not. He knows that we have delivered ourselves into his hands. He is going to strike—strikeonce and swiftly—and smash us. He will expose us to Heloise Reys. That is why he is so confident. His sort do not taunt for the mere sport of the thing.”
Clement smiled grimly, appreciating the acuteness with which Mr. Neuburg had sized up the situation. Mr. Neuburg, also, was no fool.
“Heloise will not speak with him,” said the woman.
“He will speak with her. It will come to the same in the end. Oh, yes, I tell you that is what he will do. He is not a man to miss chances.”
“We will prevent that,” said the woman.
“We will do our best to prevent that,” said the man.
Clement knew they would. He knew that to get that ten minutes’ talk with Heloise would not be an easy matter.
He listened intently. Since they meant to prevent him speaking to the girl, they might say how they meant to do it. He might, thanks to his splendid good luck, overhear their plan for check-mating him. That would be a crowning triumph. A silence settled down on the other side of the door. Then, surprisingly, astoundingly, Neuburg growled, “But there is something else. Gunning has broken loose again.”
Clement gasped—and so did the woman. But where his gasp was one of astonishment, that of the woman was one of anger. “Ah, that was whatmade Joe look so sour on the quayside. I saw he was there,” she gasped. “Well—what is it now?”
“It is not revealed,” said Mr. Neuburg, being, apparently, sardonic. “Nor is it revealed to where he has—vanished.”
“Vanished—you mean he’s left Sicamous?”
“My dear Méduse, he always leaves Sicamous. He is behaving, as he always behaves—the slack-willed, backboneless swine.”
Clement registered that character reading of Henry Gunning in his mind. Assuredly fortune was smiling on him to-day with her most genial smile.
The woman on the other side of the door suddenly showed a flash of spirit.
“Just stop being clever, Adolf, and tell me exactly what Joe Wandersun told you on the quayside.”
“He told me that Henry Gunning had been Henry Gunning. He got drunk, as usual. He talked big about his idiot mine claims, as usual. He boasted about the millionaire he’d be when his soft-hearted English sweetheart married him—I suppose that’s as usual now. He then got a little drunker. Told the world that he was going to strike the trail and ‘show ’em all.’ And he struck the trail—and—so—vanished.”
“And Joe sat down on his hunkers and watched him go?” said Méduse bitterly.
“Leave Joe to me, my dear.” There was a nastyedge to the big man’s tone, the position of Joe was not enviable. “Joe says that the brute sneaked off in the night. Joe left him apparently sleeping the solid sleep of ‘bootleg’ whisky in his shack. He thought he was safe for eight hours. When he went there again in the morning Gunning had gone. He had taken his kit, slipped off somewhere in the dark.”
“Well,” snapped the woman after a pause. “It doesn’t stop there, does it? Joe didn’t just sit down and weep, did he? What’s he found out?”
Mr. Neuburg chuckled. “You are unerring, my dear,” he said. “As you imply, our good Joe did not sit down and weep.... People who work for Adolf Neuburg know better than to do that. Our Joe has found out things. Not everything, but something. This sodden and spineless Gunning struck east. No, my dear, do not spoil your burst of intelligence by asking the obvious. If I knew exactly where he had gone I should have mentioned it. You appreciate that? When one fails to mention things it is because one doesn’t know. But we will know. Siwash Mike is finding out. He will find out. That is his forte. In a day or two we shall know where this fool Gunning is.”
The woman vented an exclamation.
“Ah, you see that that is the point, my mild Méduse. In a day or two. That means, perhaps, a day or two longer here in Quebec, with thatfoolish-looking Englishman, who is far from foolish, on the spot. The situation is not excellent.”
The pair were silent for a moment. Clement, with ears straining, wanted to learn answers to several questions that passed through his head.
As though his thoughts had been communicated telepathically through the door, his speculations were immediately answered.
The voice of the big man boomed abruptly, “This Heloise has gone out to the postoffice, eh?”
“Yes,” said Méduse. “She has gone to see if the letter is there.”
“It is there,” said Mr. Neuburg. “Her agent at Sicamous—our good Joe—sent it before he left. He showed me a copy. He did quite well. He informs her that Henry Gunning has left Sicamous on one of his periodical trips—probably on business. He does not know where Mr. Gunning has gone, but he will cable when he finds out, or when Mr. Gunning returns ... as he should in a few days.”
“That, I suppose, will not make her suspicious,” said the woman.
“What is the matter with you, Méduse?” snarled the big man with an oath. “Where is the reason for suspicion? Gunning—the fool—is not supposed to know she is coming. If he likes to go off, well, it is merely a natural thing for him to do.... If anything, his going off destroys the suggestion of a plot, of his being kept there by usas a bait for her. You are a fool, Méduse. This Englishman—he is destroying your nerve.”
“Yes, it is the Englishman. He is too unexpected. I do not like the idea of our remaining here several days with him about.”
“Well, you know his capacities; it will help to keep you alert. And we will deal with him—as best we can.”
The woman said, “Still—would it not be better to get her away? Would it be possible?”
“It would be better, but not possible,” said Mr. Neuburg. “We must remain here, in touch with the Sault Algonquin; Siwash is to report there. He is ‘in the air,’ as it were, and that is the only way we can keep in touch. No, my dear Méduse, it will not suffice that he cables. He will cable Sicamous, and Joe’s wife will send on the message to our soft-hearted little girl. But the cable is not good enough for us. We must know all the details: what Gunning is doing, what is his condition, and so forth, in order to know how to act. No, we must stay in Quebec until we see Siwash.”
“And Joe is staying, too?”
“Yes, he is at the gluemaker’s in Algonquin. I see what you mean. He will be an addition to our forces if we have to deal with that Englishman. Joe is a useful man.... He may be slow at times, but he is not squeamish.”
Clement Seadon was glad of the hint. He would adopt a special alertness for the benefit of thisunknown and unsqueamish Joe. But more than this, he was exceedingly grateful for the address they had given him—the gluemaker’s in the Sault Algonquin. He rather fancied he knew the street. It was one of those in the old town, in that network of dark and narrow alleys crowded between the water front and the rocky cliff on which Quebec was piled up. It was good to know the local headquarters of the gang. Also, Siwash Mike—whoever he was—was to report there. It would be interesting to hear that report. One might gather a great deal of useful and destructive information about Henry Gunning and the plans of the gang from it. The woman Méduse was saying, “Yes, something must be done about this Englishman. I assure you, Adolf, I do not feel secure with him about. It is not merely that apparently his easy-going appearance covers an unnatural cleverness—but—but—we must not mince matters, he has an effect on this girl Heloise.”
There was a pause. Clement felt that the big Mr. Neuburg was impressed by the significance of the companion Méduse’s words. He knew that he himself was certainly impressed by the significance of Méduse’s words. His heart had suddenly leaped. His brain was singing. He could scarcely restrain himself from calling out, “Say it. Say what you mean plainly.” And, as before, it was as though the intensity of his own feelings compelled those in the farther room to be explicit.
“Ah,” breathed the mountainous man. “You mean that she is, perhaps, in love with him?”
“I mean,” answered the woman, “that it would be very easy for her to be in love with him. I do not think she knows it yet. But he—he would quickly make her know the state of her heart.”
“Thank you,” Clement almost cried aloud.
“That is the devil,” said the big Mr. Neuburg, and his was the only expression that was vocal. “We must certainly deal with him....” And then came an unexpected happening, the woman hissed.
“Shiss, one moment.”
There was a sound of stealthy and swift movement in the room. A silence. Presently another movement of skirts, as though the woman was returning from a farther chamber. Then, “It is she. She has returned from the postoffice. I hear her moving in her room. I must go to her before she finds the bathroom door locked.” It was the companion Méduse, speaking softly.
Again movement. Again silence. A long silence. Clement heard the scratch of a match. Smelt cigar smoke. Heard a chair complain as a heavy body dropped into it. Then once more silence.
Mr. Neuburg had sat down to think things out.
Clement shut his own bathroom door noiselessly, noiselessly bolted it.
The seance of eavesdropping was over.
Clement decided that the next item of importance was to arrange for his talk with Heloise.
Although he was quite willing—so strong was his case—to say all that he meant to say in front of Méduse, and even Mr. Neuburg if necessary, he thought that a ten-minutes’ undistracted conversation with Heloise would give him a better chance of stating all the facts firmly and finally.
How to fix that up was the problem. As he was deciding whether he would risk telephoning to her room, his eye fell on his wrist watch. It was close to lunch time, and at once it came to him that not only did he want lunch himself, but that Heloise, being human as well as a goddess, would want hers.
He smiled suddenly as he saw how things might be managed, went down to the first floor where the great dining room was, and sat in a modestly remote seat in the lounge. Without being seen himself, he could watch everybody who came to or went from the dining room.
He had about twenty minutes to wait. Probably Heloise was telling the innocent Méduse that there had been a letter from her Sicamous agent at the Poste Restante, and that they had perhaps to stay a few days more in Quebec, and the reason why. But after that wait they both came.
From a safe distance Clement saw the captainof the waiters lead them to a table, noticed that the room was not full, and that there were plenty of places at the end. Satisfied about this, he went downstairs.
In the lobby he selected a form, wrote on it, tore it up. Wrote on another, and then, apparently, thought better of it. But whereas he threw the first into the waste basket, the second he folded rather cleverly under cover of that action, and kept it in his hand. Then having convinced all about him that he wasn’t sending a message, he waited until he saw a page go upstairs with a caller’s form, went up himself, and waited at the turn of the stairs for the boy’s return.
The boy returned alone, fortunately. Clement snapped him up.
“Want to earn a dollar?” he asked.
“Bettcher life,” said young Canada.
“Take this call form to Miss Méduse Smythe. She and another lady are sitting at the fifth table for two on the window side. Call her name, please, but that’s where she is. Give the form to her, and come away quick.”
“Yep,” said the page, grinning.
“And you don’t know where it came from to anybody—even the lady herself.”
“I gottcher,” said the page, grinning more expansively. He took the dollar and the call form. He went upstairs. Clement went after him. The page went into the dining room. Clement steppedback quietly and swiftly into a deep passage where the male diners deposited their coats. He heard the boy calling out, “Miss Smidt—Miss Medoose Smidt.”
In seventy-five seconds Miss Méduse Smythe came by the end of the coat passage at a great pace. Clement had thought she would be swift. What he had written on the call form, in anybody’s handwriting, was:
“Must see you for ten minutes. At once.Joe.”
The companion might have argued about that handwriting, but how was she to know that “Joe” did not have to disguise it. Clement had banked on that idea. And he had scored.
Miss Méduse Smythe was no sooner out of vision than he was in the dining room, alongside Heloise’s table, speaking to Heloise. “Miss Reys,” he said, “will you give me an opportunity to talk to you privately?...”
“Mr. Seadon!”
Heloise’s tone was affronted. Obviously she resented his speaking to her, but obviously, too, the extreme publicity of the place robbed her attitude of some of its effectiveness. It is to be feared that Clement had taken that into his calculations when he had decided on this plan.
“Miss Reys,” he said, “I want to speak to you—privately—for no more than ten minutes. AndI want you to understand that it is only the urgency of the matter that makes me force myself upon you.” She hesitated, looking up at him, her vivid face showing the keenness of her emotions. “Do you remember saying that you believed I’d be honest even against my own interests?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I did say that, but——”
“I am honest now. Will you believe that?”
The girl looked at him quietly for a moment.
“I believe that,” she said.
“And will you give me that chance of speaking to you—alone?”
The girl bent her eyes to the table. She was thinking quickly. “To-morrow morning I will be in the writing room at half past nine. Will that do? It will not be easy to manage it before then.”
“It will do admirably. Thank you,” said Clement.
He left her, and went to the back of the room, where there were a number of empty tables.
As he sat and ate his lunch the companion, Méduse came in. She was flustered, she was even scared. Clement was amused, but he did not think it mattered very much. She would not, he thought, mention the reason for her leaving Heloise—though actually there was no reason. Neither did he think that Heloise would tell her of the appointment she had made. His insistence upon privacy, the way he had snatched at the chance to speak to her alone at her table, the way he hadleft her, would all tell Heloise that the companion Méduse was excluded from the secret.
And even if she did tell, it would matter very little. Clement would have his interview with Heloise no later than the next morning, for Heloise would see to it that it happened, and nothing very much could occur until that time. The rogues could not whisk her away against her will. They had to move delicately always.
And after he had spoken to Heloise, nothing at all could occur. He would have settled with Mr. Neuburg and his gang once and for all.
He finished his lunch after the two ladies, watched them out of the dining room, then he got his hat and stick and walked out through Quebec. He would take a look at this glue merchant’s in the Sault Algonquin. It was best to be “well-up” in every particular. Very cheerfully he walked through the Place d’Armes, and down the steep street of The Mountain to the huddled network of passageways—they can hardly be called roads—that crowded under the rocky scarp of the Grand Battery. He was feeling “good,” as the Canadians would say. Why not? Hadn’t he all the factors for victory surely in his grasp?
Possibly he would have felt less “good” if he had been aware of a little scene between the companion Méduse and the massive Mr. Neuburg that was even then taking place.
Both Heloise and the companion had gone up to their rooms, a prey to emotions. Heloise’s emotion was not altogether unpleasant. She was agitated at the prospect of an intimate talk with Clement Seadon on the morrow; but, like all people who trample on their feelings in order to bolster up their pride, she felt relief that this condition of chilly aloofness between them was coming to an end. As Méduse Smythe had told Mr. Neuburg, Heloise did not know exactly what her feelings were towards Clement Seadon, but she did know enough to realize that a renewal of their old companionship would be an extraordinarily pleasant thing.
Méduse Smythe’s agitation was of a different order. There was fear in it. She had received an imperative message from one of the conspirators; he wanted to see her in the hotel lobby. That fact in itself was disturbing. She hurried swiftly to the lobby—and there was no Joe. Nobody was there wanting her. What did it mean? Had Joe been frightened away? Or—or was it some ruse? She was puzzled, scared. She felt that her own wits were not capable of dealing with this matter.
She left Heloise, grappling with the feminine complications of preparing for a walk, in her room, passed swiftly across her own. She slippedajar her door of the bathroom that led to Mr. Neuburg’s room, and scratched stealthily on the inner door. That was the signal. She repeated it several times. It was not answered. Mr. Neuburg was not in his room. She half expected that; that might be the reason why Joe had sent in to her. She closed her own of these double bathroom doors, and her anxiety was increased. She must see and speak with Mr. Neuburg. It might be a matter that did not brook of delay. Her agitation developed steadily until both ladies got down to the lobby again, then, with a gasp of relief, she said, “Oh, there’s Mr. Neuburg.... Do you mind, Loise; I do want to speak to him about something before it slips out of my memory?”
She went across to Mr. Neuburg, who rose from his chair and bowed with all the affability of a mere acquaintance. She said, in quite an ordinary voice, as though discussing the weather, “I am going to give you a slip of paper. It seems important. Can you take it from me without being seen?”
Mr. Neuburg, with all the charm of a genial man of the world, and all the acuteness of a master rogue, bowed at once, led her to the magazine counter to the right of the lobby. “My dear Méduse, as I select a guide book for you, lean across me to reach those post cards, then you can drop your paper.”
The call form that was supposed to have comefrom the man Joe was dropped. Mr. Neuburg picked it up with a guide book. He read it. He opened the guide book, as though in search for some locality, pointed to a page with his fat finger, and said, “When did you get this, Méduse?”
“It was brought to me by a page, just after I had sat down to lunch.”
“Ha—and you went out at once, and Joe—he was not there, of course. He would not be there. This is a thing he would not do.”
“He was not there,” said Méduse.
“And when you came back from this false call—how was the girl?”
“She was alone—as I left her. She seemed the same.”
“She said nothing to you—about anybody speaking to her, I mean?”
“Nothing at all.”
“And the Englishman—did you see him in the dining room?”
“No—I did not see him. But then I did not look very keenly. Surely the Englishman does not know about Joe?”
“Somebody knows about Joe,” said Mr. Neuburg. “Somebody knows so much about Joe that he recognized that the name was enough to get you away from Miss Heloise into the lobby at a run. Who do you think would pull off a trick like that, my mild Méduse?”
“But the Englishman cannot know about Joe,” said the woman sullenly.
“Certainly this is your day for being triumphantly dull, my dear. This Englishman has bewitched you.”
“But how could he know about Joe?”
“Ah, my mild one, that is a thing that even I cannot tell you without finding out. It is to be found out. Now go back to the girl with this guide book, tell her the pleasant Mr. Neuburg has recommended it as the best of its kind—and remember that if your brain has turned into wool, you have the support of mine, which is particularly acute. That may restore and stimulate your wits.”
When the two ladies had gone out Mr. Neuburg sat and smoked and considered this unexpected happening deeply. His was a quite exceptional brain, and he had mastery over his thoughts and his memories. It was while he was going over his memories that the smoke of his cigar suddenly ceased to puff. That was the only sign exhibited by his impressive, placid and genial bulk.
At once he rose indolently, walked across the lobby to the reception desk. He asked in his affable way if he could see the room bookings. He looked through them. He stopped when he came to the name “Clement Seadon.” He stopped with reason, for he saw that Clement’s room was next his own. He stared at that number for a moment, said “Thank you” very politely to the receptionclerk, and mounted to the gallery on which his room stood.
He went not merely to his own room but walked round the corner of the gallery to the door of Clement Seadon’s room. As he stood there regarding it contemplatively, the chambermaid passed by. He looked at her, or rather across her shoulder, with that smile which was quite charming, but had not the slightest tinge of human emotion in it, and he said, “There is, I think, a blind in that room which is making noises in the wind. It destroys my nap. I have knocked on the door, but the occupant of the room is not there apparently. Would it be asking you too much to go in and pull up that blind, so that I can have my beauty sleep undisturbed?”
He backed his appeal with the weight of a half-dollar piece.
The girl smiled and opened the door. With a polite, “Thanks enormously,” Mr. Neuburg slipped away from her with his extraordinary swiftness. He went into his own room. He opened his one of the double doors between his room and Clement Seadon’s bathroom. He listened at the other door. He did not hear as well as Clement had heard, for the bathroom was between him and the Englishman’s room. But he heard. He heard the movements of the chambermaid, heard her rattling at the windows.
When the chambermaid came round the cornerof the gallery to ask if it was all right now, he was at his door beaming—but this time, perhaps, with a more natural good humor.
“Yes, that is satisfactory,verysatisfactory.”
And indeed he thought it was.
As the massive Mr. Neuburg sat in his room certain that things were satisfactory, Clement Seadon, with much the same emotions, was searching for and finding the gluemaker in the Sault Algonquin.
The street was as unprepossessing as he imagined it would be. It was a narrow cañon, indescribably gloomy and muddy, between the tall, old, straight-faced houses that lined it. It was right round beyond the splendid old seventeenth century hospital, the austere Hôtel-Dieu, and in the area of the docks, too. From these latter it got some of its mud, and, perhaps, some of its lowering air. It looked a darkling, brooding, sinister street. Clement found it quite easy to imagine it a place where, in the grim old days, bravos quietly and expeditiously slit throats, or where fur hunters had been lured to be despoiled of the earnings of long, lonely months of trapping in the virgin wilds.
In this old and moody street, and in the grim and reticent houses that bordered it, almost anything might have happened in the early days ofCanada—but most of those things, Clement thought, would have been evil. The street had an aroma of crime. One felt it, as it were, in the air, just as though centuries of wickedness about its narrow, greasy sidewalks had saturated it with an essential aura. It was a street fitted to be the headquarters of Mr. Neuburg and his gang of ruffians.
It was a short street, and it was easy to find the gluemaker’s. There were only two other business premises. The gluemaker’s, No. 7, was a tall, depressing house that was even dirtier than its neighbors. It had the distinction of keeping all its windows covered with the latticelike jalousies of France, as though its inmates were determined to keep themselves to themselves. It had one window on the ground floor, the shutters were back from this, but as it was filled with trade samples backed by trade advertisements, a view of the room behind was impossible. There was no doorway on to the street. Entrance was effected through a cartway. A heavy wooden gate covered this, with a smaller door for humans in it. Clement surmised that, having passed through this gate into the cartway that ran under the house (which joined to and made one of a block with all the houses on that side), one entered the house itself by a doorway on the left.
However, this cartway told him one thing. In spite of the fact that the cliff seemed to come upright behind the house, there must be a yard at the back of the gluemaker’s. Glancing along the face of the houses he obtained confirmation of this. There was no iron fire escape stair in front of this house and its immediate neighbors, although farther along the street this inevitable disfigurement of western cities zig-zagged down the faces of the buildings. That meant that the fire escapes—by law enforced—were at the back, and that there were yards there into which people could escape.
Getting round to the back was not easy. He found he had to climb through distant streets to watch the cliff-top, and when he arrived on top he had to trespass into a builder’s yard in order to look down on to the backs of the houses in the Sault Algonquin. As he did not wish to be disturbed, he hid behind a pile of scrapped rubbish.
No. 7 was easy to find. It was under the cliff where it sloped down rather less steeply. Clement noted that. At a pinch an active man might find a way down there. The yard was a fairly large one, littered with the rubbish of manufactory, and partly filled by a single-storied building, of very much later construction than the house itself. This had a flat roof and square walls, a jet of steam came out of a thin exhaust pipe—in it, undoubtedly, were carried on the mystical processes of gluemaking.
While Clement was studying the house, hebecame conscious that some one else had entered the builder’s yard where he had hidden himself. A young, slim man came casually into view, strolling with hands in pockets towards the edge of the cliff. Clement crouched closer in his shelter, and prayed that this workman—for that was what the young man seemed—had no business which would bring him round the pile of scrapped rubbish sheltering him.
Then, as he thought this, he noticed two peculiarities about the man. The first was, that in spite of his casualness, the young man had no more right to be there than himself. He was throwing keen, swift glances about him, as though he were doing something that he did not want other people to see.
The second thing about him was the color and the outline of his features, as well as the lithe slimness of his build. His face had a curious copper brownness that might have been sunburn, only it was deeper than sunburn. His features had a definite aquiline clear-cutness, rather individual features they were—like an Indian’s.
Clement tingled as he thought that. And even as he thought it, the slim man moved abruptly and swiftly to the cliff, glanced along it, and in a moment was descending the sloping face of it.
Clement stared and chuckled. And he muttered, “Siwash Mike. By all that’s lucky, it’s SiwashMike come to Quebec to report on the doings and whereabouts of Henry Gunning.”
There could be little doubt about it. The newcomer was making his way, in such a fashion as to escape detection, to the gluemaker’s of Algonquin, the place where he was to report. From his hiding place, Clement followed his movements. They were sinuous and swift, veritably an Indian’s. He wriggled down the cliff by known footholds, reached the back yard of the gluemaker’s, poised for a moment just above it, and then sprang lightly on to the flat roof of the building—then that was possible. Clement saw that there was a ledge along the cliff that made the take-off for the jump easy.
Once on the roof, the slim man again adopted his casual air. He was to all appearances an occupant of the glue factory taking an airing on the roof. He dawdled about, hands in pockets, looking about him, up to the cliff, along the backs of the other houses. Then he strolled towards the house, poised himself on the edge of the roof just by the fire escape over the cartway. He jumped, caught it, scrambled on to the landing. Then very calmly, he walked up the iron stairway until he came to the fourth floor. The window of the fourth floor was shuttered but, apparently, not bolted, for the slim man opened the shutters without effort, slid through them into the house, pulled them to after him and disappeared.
Waiting for a minute or two Clement presently backed away from the shelter of his scrap heap, and made his way out of the builder’s yard. He had discovered two very important things. The first, that Siwash Mike had returned to the gluemaker’s to report the whereabouts of Henry Gunning. The second discovery was that there was a way into the gluemaker’s from the back.
He hurried back to the Château Frontenac. He was anxious to know what the massive Mr. Neuburg made of the first fact. And how far his own knowledge of the second fact was going to help him discover Mr. Neuburg’s future plans.
While Clement Seadon had been active, Mr. Neuburg had not been idle. He had sat and smoked for a while. Then having decided upon a plan, he rose and searched for something in his baggage. When he had found it, he opened his one of the pair of doors between his room and Clement’s bathroom, and for several moments did something to the foot of Clement’s door.
Having done this to his complete satisfaction, he sat and smoked and thought again. Three minutes after the time Clement had seen Siwash Mike enter the gluemaker’s, the telephone bell rang in Mr. Neuburg’s room. With one glance at the floor near the door he had just shut and bolted, he rose and answered the ring.
What he heard over the wire gave him apparently a pleasant surprise, for though his curiously impassive face showed no sign, he said, “Eh, but you have been quick, I did not expect you for a day or two.... No, say nothing now.... I will see you this night, about ten o’clock. And now listen——” And in his slightly purring voice he gave a string of directions. They were very guarded, for telephones have eavesdroppers, but quite explicit to understanding ears.
He hung up the telephone, dropped back into his chair again and thought and smoked. But after a perceptible minute this curious, immobile-faced man, allowed himself the luxury of a great laugh. It was a terrible laugh, but a short one. It was perhaps well it was so, for very quickly after there came the scratch at the communicating door, which betokened that Méduse Smythe had returned to her room, and was ready to serve him.
He sprang up at once, and again glancing at the floor by the other communicating door, let Méduse in. The woman said, “I have come back by myself. The girl wished to go for half an hour’s motor drive alone in the Battlefield Park.... No, the Englishman was not with her. She may be going to meet him, but I don’t think so.... The whole thing seemed a sudden thought on her part. Can I do anything?”
“You will,” he smiled at her with his mirthless grin. “This Seadon may be meeting her, but evenif he is or isn’t, I want you to go down to the lobby, watch for him coming in, and when he comes in, come up here as swiftly as you can and tell me. No, do not telephone up. Come yourself. I need you....” She made a step to go. “When you join me in this room don’t be surprised at anything. When I say things to you, play up—play up, remember that.”
It seemed only a few minutes before she was back in the room. Mr. Neuburg came through the intercommunicating bathroom at the sound of the key in her door. He looked at her, indicating the necessity for quiet.
“He came in just as I reached the lobby,” she said. “He did not see me. He came up straight to his room, I think.”
Mr. Neuburg caught her by the wrist, and both very stealthily went back to his room. He led her close to the doors that communicated with Clement Seadon’s bathroom. He paused, listened. He could hear no sound from the Englishman’s side of the doors. He looked at her, grinned, and pointed to the floor near their feet.
On the floor was a yellow-painted lead pencil. It was lying alongside a white line Mr. Neuburg had chalked on the floor. The woman Méduse stared down at it, wondering what on earth it all meant.... And as she stared down the pencil began to move.
There was no sound. The silence was profound.There was nothing to indicate a reason for the pencil’s movement. And the pencil moved ... slowly, stealthily, cautiously it moved away from the chalk mark. It moved six inches and then it stopped. Mr. Neuburg looked into her face and grinned. His hand indicated the door leading to Clement Seadon’s bathroom.
Then the woman, looking closer at the pencil, understood. Round the waist of the pencil was a thin line, a line of thread. The thread ran from the pencil under the closed door. Undoubtedly it was attached to the inner door of the pair by a piece of wax. She understood at once that the Englishman was in the other room. Thread and wax would be invisible in the dim light and in the almost imperceptible space between the double doors; but as Clement’s door opened, its movement would be shown by the movements of the pencil.
The pencil had moved. The Englishman had opened his door. He was at the opening of the door now—listening for what he might learn through the closed door of Mr. Neuburg’s room.
The woman Méduse in a flash understood how the Englishman had learned the name of Joe, which he had used to get her away from Heloise at lunch time. Mr. Neuburg, in his brilliant manner, had solved that riddle.
Mr. Neuburg, in his brilliant manner, was going to make the most of his knowledge. Veryquietly he led the woman back to the door through which she had entered. He left her standing there with a soundless command to silence. He went to his chair and lowered himself softly into it. He picked up a newspaper and rustled it. He cleared his throat. He moved so that his chair would creak. He did this for a long ten minutes. Then abruptly he sprang up, making a definite noise, and moved towards her. “Ah, you are back, my dear Méduse,” he said aloud. “Where is the girl?”
Méduse played up—played up well.
“She wished to go for a drive alone in the Battlefield Park. No, the Englishman was not with her. She may be going to meet him, but I do not think so. The whole thing seemed a sudden thought on her part.”
“We cannot help it, anyhow,” said Mr. Neuburg, smiling in his sinister manner. “I do not think, on the whole, her seeing him will have much effect. I have good news—Siwash Mike has arrived.”
The companion Méduse was a little startled at that, but she played up. “But—is that possible? You did not expect him for a day or two.”
“It is a fact. He has arrived, my mild Méduse. I had a telephone message from No. 7 Sault Algonquin this afternoon.”
He said “No. 7 Sault Algonquin” precisely and clearly. He wanted the Englishman behind thedoor to hear it. Clement Seadon behind the door heard it, and chuckled silently. He was certainly having great good fortune.
“Did—did Siwash say where he had found Henry Gunning? I suppose he has found him?” The woman was not playing up so well, Mr. Neuburg frowned bleakly; and yet, swiftly, he made her question serve his ends.
“Siwash knows better than to talk of matters like that over the telephone,” he said. “I take it that he has discovered the lurking place of our besotted friend Gunning. But I shall not know until to-night. I meet him at Algonquin at 10:30. He will report then.”
He said the last words very clearly. The Englishman was to hear them. Clement heard them and congratulated himself.
There was a pause in Mr. Neuburg’s room, then Clement heard the massive man speak again, “What are you doing to-night—you and the girl?”
“O-oh,” said the woman. “We are going to a concert of oldhabitantFrench songs. One of the ladies from theEmpresstold the girl she must not miss it for the world, so she booked seats.... But if you wanted me at Algonquin, I could have a headache.”
“You will not have a headache,” said Mr. Neuburg, very distinctly. “I do not want you at Algonquin. I want you by that girl’s side. But, and attend to this carefully, my dear Méduse, ifanything untoward occurs you must come to the gluemaker’s immediately. Understand that—you must come yourself. I will not have telephoning. I do not trust a woman on the telephone in so delicate a business as this. Follow carefully what I have to say. You may take a taxi, if you like, as far as the docks, but youmust nottake it into the Sault Algonquin, or to the door of No. 7. You understand? No curiosity, particularly that of the gluemaker’s neighbors, must be aroused. For that reason you will not knock at the door, which, you know, is in a cart gate, or wait about outside.All you need do is to push against the little door in the gate. It will be open. It will purposely be left open.Now you understand that perfectly?”
The woman understood that perfectly. She repeated the directions to show that she had it perfectly. Mr. Neuburg said, “That is good. I do not think anything untoward will occur, but we must always plan for any event. And now that you know everything, you had better go back to your room and await the girl. We cannot risk suspicion of any sort. Let us hope that Siwash will bring us definite and good news of Henry Gunning, and that what I hear at 10:30 to-night may mean a speedy finish to our big scheme.”
Clement echoed the sentiments. He hoped, in fact he felt certain, that what Siwash Mike would have to say about the vanished Henry would give him (Seadon) facts which, in addition to the otherdamning material he had, would enable him to settle the accounts of these rogues swiftly and for all time when he spoke of them in his talk with Heloise Reys to-morrow morning.
He felt, indeed, that it was all part of fate working on his side.
Siwash Mike’s coming fitted into the situation as neatly as if it had all been thought out. Clement thought it might have been thought out, ordained, by Providence.
And not only had good fortune sent along Siwash Mike to-day, but good fortune had also stepped in to enable him to make the most of Siwash Mike. To be present when that rogue reported to his master was not going to be child’s play, but it was going to be simpler than he had first thought. The way down the cliffside to the gluemaker’s of Algonquin was a certain way in, but it would be difficult and dangerous in the dark. Now, thanks to his abounding good luck, he had overheard that all he had to do wasto push against the little door in the big cart gate of the gluemaker’s, and it would be open. Good fortune had favored him with an easy entrance. How could he reject this offer of good fortune? He could not.
And Mr. Neuburg, as he sat in his own room and smoked, thought much the same thoughts. How could this Englishman reject this offer which good fortune apparently had offered him? No, thefellow could not.... He would go to the gluemaker’s of the Sault Algonquin at 10:30 to-night.
And Clement Seadon went.
He put on old clothes. He carried an automatic pistol in his pocket. He also wore rubber-soled brown shoes. His adventure was not going to be easy and without danger, and he was prepared for all eventualities. But, on the whole, his great good luck had given him an exhilarating sense of confidence, and as he passed through the dark streets of the lower town of Quebec, and into the cañon of lowering and silent blackness that night made of the Sault Algonquin, he felt sure of his success.
There was no one about. He reached the gluemaker’s unobserved. The face of the house was black, enigmatic. There was no sign of life or light. He pressed upon the little door in the big cart gate. Yes, it was yielding ... it was open. With a sharp movement he opened it wide enough to let his body through, slipped inside.
Under the arch of the house, the cartway was a cave of almost impenetrable blackness. Moving very slowly and very easily, Clement stole to the left. The door of the house must be there. He felt along the house wall. There was no window ... for yards there was nothing. Then his hand dropped into the recess of the door, slid across the woodwork, found the handle.... Softly, gently he turned. The door answered under pressure—it opened. Clement was inside a pitch black room.
There was just a faint sound ... something small fell ... something as small as a pencil.... Only in that terrific silence would he have heard so small a sound. Then complete silence ... silence bearing down like a shroud.... Slowly, cautiously Clement closed the door behind him ... took one, then another, then another step into the room.... Something tautened and snapped across his instep, a thread.... Things happened....
A hoarse whisper ... a sudden rush of movement ... a torch clicked, wavered, struck into his eyes with its brilliant and dazzling light ... there was a sweep of movement.... Men bore down on him in a terrific rush....
Clement realized at once that he was trapped, and neatly. The thought did not rob him of activity. The instinctive sense of action which is in every athlete functioned immediately. He dashed, not at the torch as every cornered animal or man would, as they expected him to do, but away from it.
He swung cleanly on his heel, and jumped as he swung. He sensed that there were several men in the room, and that they guarded the door. He neglected the door. He leaped for the window. If he could smash that, create an uproar in the Sault Algonquin, then he would attract help.
An oath came from a man as his game was realized. Something whistled through the air, hit a wall with a soft and terrible thud. “Sandbag,” registered Clement’s brain. He dodged, and there was another oath and another miss.
A shadow, lean and leaping like a cat, shot from the darkness into the dazzle of the torch. Clement saw a fierce, feline face, and one hand stretchedforward to clutch, while the other swung up to club.
“Siwash,” Clement’s brain signaled. He spurred his body forward with a quicker drive of his foot, got in under the blow, and punched in both hands hard and sure. Siwash staggered and his stick went flying loose over Clement’s shoulder. Clement uppercut with a savage left, Siwash jerked upward grotesquely, went over wildly into the blackness. Clement hurdled his body, and his hand was on the advertisement boards screening the window.
Adolf Neuburg was on him.
The mountain of a man with his unexpected and terrible agility swept down from nowhere. His great hands went out plucking at the young Englishman. His vast fists were free of weapons, for he was confident in his enormous strength. And he grabbed at Clement, he did not hit—that was foolish. His hand closed on Clement’s upper arm and swung the lighter man round. Then Mr. Neuburg uttered a curious, staccato yell. As his hand closed on the arm, the arm, instead of being wrenched away, had closed on the hand, the upper and lower arms coming together. As the Englishman swung round, his body doubled forward, and Mr. Neuburg’s arm, caught and twisted, was vilely wrenched. The fact that Mr. Neuburg endeavored to save his wrist and forearm by exerting his huge strength only made matters worse—that is thegreat truth underlying Japanese wrestling. But Mr. Neuburg did not know that.
He snatched his hand away as Clement unhinged, only to receive a snapping right-hand swing to the side of the head. He bellowed, made a furious swipe at the Englishman with his left. Clement ducked, slipped in under it, banged right and left to Mr. Neuburg’s great face. And Mr. Neuburg went down. He went down not because he had been knocked, but because Clement had employed a trick he had once seen a shifty boxer use. As he jumped in to hit, he had slipped his left toe behind Mr. Neuburg’s heel. The force of the blow sent Mr. Neuburg reeling over that toe.
But Mr. Neuburg had served his purpose. He had delayed Clement. Clement knew it. Directly he had struck the mountain of a man, he darted, not towards the window now, for the other men—how many were there?—must be converging on that, but towards the door again, which should have been left unguarded. The tussle had lasted moments only—but——
The man who had held the torch had not moved during all the fighting. It was Joe, who was slow, but enduringly calm. He had seen Siwash go down and out. He had seen the massive Mr. Neuburg go down. He saw Clement dart away from the window towards the door. He stood still. His hand held the blazing torch steady. But his other hand moved. It moved in a long swinging arc. Itcompleted its swing at the moment Clement’s hand touched the door handle. Clement slumped forward against the door, and then he crumpled nervelessly to the floor. The sandbag in that swinging hand had reached its mark on Clement’s head with a beautiful accuracy.
Joe played the light round Clement’s inert body. Mr. Neuburg scrambled to his feet, snarling because he tried to help himself up with his damaged wrist. He came to Joe’s side. Joe put out his hand, clicked on the electric light. Both rogues stood over the Englishman. He did not move.
“Some wildcat,” said Joe. He gazed down with grim admiration. He looked at Siwash, still prone. He looked at Mr. Neuburg’s palpably damaged face and wrist. A fourth man, so tall and thin that his bones seemed loose and rattling, joined the two. He was the only other in the room. He held a sandbag in his hand, but he had the general air of being a tradesman. That gave his furtive pose a tone of nervousness. He looked at Neuburg, moistening his lips in agitation—and did not speak. He looked at Joe and did. “Dead?” he asked hesitantly. “Dead?”
“Aw,” said Joe without passion, “you make me tired. A little knock like that killing any feller.”
Mr. Neuburg looked across the tall, thin man’s shoulder with an emotionless chuckle. “Since our good Louis took to glue, his morale has become—shall we say—very sticky?” he said softly.
“Well, mustn’t one preserve appearances, Adolf?” the thin man protested nervously. “Now mustn’t one? If anything happened to cause trouble would it help me—any of us? It is by keeping up the appearance of—of honesty that we—we——”
“Timidity has given our dear friend Louis a certain wisdom,” said Neuburg, smiling his creaseless smile. “There is something in what he says.”
“That means,” commented Joe without emotion—“that means you ain’t goin’ to dump this coyote inter the river.”
“No—no—no!” cried the gluemaker feverishly. “If it got out, that would——” The man Louis seemed to have a terror of finishing sentences.
“Aw, you’re crazy,” said Joe. “You make me real tired. Get quit o’ him once and for all, I says.”
“The shock of the water would bring him to,” murmured Mr. Neuburg, not in friendliness towards Clement, but in speculation.
“We could fix that—rope him,” said Joe.
“And that would indicate foul play. So would hitting him over the head, or shooting him before we slipped him into the St. Lawrence....”
“I could keep him safe,” put in the timid Louis. “Safe, up at top of house. In that room he’d never get out. You see.”
“He’d have to get out sometime,” said Mr. Neuburg.
“I’d see that he didn’t.”
“Forever?” put in Joe dryly.
“Well—for long enough. For days, for a week—until you’ve got things fixed....”
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Neuburg with quick decision. “You take him up to that room of yours and keep him tight. Don’t forget he’s a cunning one, whatever you do.—I’m not a pleasant person to have trouble with.” Louis cringed away. “Right; you understand that. In a few days we’ll telegraph you. Then you can let him free.”
“To raise hell,” sneered Joe sullenly, puzzled by Mr. Neuburg’s decision.
Mr. Neuburg turned with his silent swiftness on Joe. He gazed bitterly across Joe’s shoulder. “Do I give orders, Joe, or do you? Do I make mistakes, Joe, or do you?”
Joe shuffled his feet anxiously. Mr. Neuburg was not looking at him, but Joe dropped his gaze to the dirty floor. “Oh, I know you’re the brains, boss ... but I don’t see ...” he muttered.
“I’m seeing for you,” sneered Mr. Neuburg coldly. “You’re a bright feller in a rough-house, but thinking isn’t one of your assets. Just for that I’ll explain to you. Item one, we don’t want trouble in this business. Item two, if we can squash trouble it’s wiser to squash it. Item three, if we can make this fool Englishman feel that he’s played a losing game, that he’s only butting in where he’s not wanted—by the girl; that the girlis happy and content with what she’s doing, an’ so on, and so on, well, he’ll stop making trouble right then an’ there. Item four, given that the girl is what we know she is, and Gunning being licked up to the scratch, an’ the pair or twain thrown together—well, she’ll be content. Do you follow now, my friend? This Heloise girl meets Gunning; Gunning is love’s young dream to her. They fix it up together. That’s settled. We wire Louis here to release this feller; he can even let drop where he is to find the girl. He comes chasing after her. He finds her. She hasn’t a glance for him. She is all for Gunning; maybe, even, she has married him—I think we can fix that up, get a reason for the hurry. Anything this Englishman says to her, he says against Gunning, so it will be an insult. He’ll be simply out of it. So he goes away quietly, for her sake. Do you get it now?”
“If hedidgo away quietly,” said Joe haltingly. “It has a good sound, what you say, but——”
“And if he doesn’t go away quietly,” said Mr. Neuburg in a soft, cold voice, “well, we will be, perhaps, in the wilds; at Sicamous, or somewhere. Away from cities, from people who ask questions and pry deeply. In the wilds,accidentshave a more plausible air, my good Joe; dead men are less noticeable—than—say in Quebec!”
Joe looked at the big mountain of a Mr. Neuburg with a wide-eyed gaze. “I see, youwanthim to come out and be killed. You’re a wonder of a devil, Adolf,” he said.
“Take his head, Joe, Louis will probably drop him before we get to that room at the top. Louis, his legs.”
When Clement came to himself he was conscious of extreme darkness, an agonizing pain in his head where that sandbag had landed, and also considerable pain where his bonds bit into wrist and leg.
He also felt from the sounds drifting up to him that he was in a room at the top of the gluemaker’s house, and probably a lumber room from the musty smell of it.
It must be confessed that his first responsible emotion was not thankfulness for an escape from what should have been death, but a very hearty disgust at the way he had allowed himself to be captured. In fact, when he realized how he had thrown away his chance and maybe delivered Heloise into the hands of Mr. Neuburg and his gang, he lost his nerve, and with a terrific output of strength tried to free himself from his bonds.
He had seen heroes in the “movies” and Mr. Houdini free themselves from their shackles often enough, and it had seemed a simple matter. The men who had fixed his bonds, however, would havespoiled any movie hero’s business. Not only could he not throw them off, but the struggle to do so, so increased the pain of them and that of his head, that in the end he fainted.
He was forced back to consciousness by the frightful sensation of blood recirculating in his limbs. He writhed and moaned. An oath sounded at his side, something was flung over his head, and handcuffs were snapped on to his wrists. Clement struggled with the thing about his head, while shuffling footsteps hurried across the boards but he only got the rug—that is what it proved to be—away from his eyes in time to see the legs and back of a tall, thin man flash out of the door. A strong lock snapped home. Louis, the gluemaker, was not risking identification.
When he had recovered sufficiently, Clement sat up and took stock of the situation. He was, as he had thought in the roof room of the gluemaker’s. It was a big room, crowded with old junk. The room was lit by a narrow window of the kind known to architects as a “lie-on-your-stomach,” that is, it rose from the floor boards to end at the slant of the roof about two feet above. By the light coming in through the dirty panes the morning was well on, but whether it was past his hour to see Heloise—9:30—he could not say.
He was sitting in the center of this room, with some fresh food and water beside him. The gang then did not want him to starve. He also sawthat the gang had thought of him in other ways. The thin man who had just bolted through the door, had been with him for no other reason than to remove the tight ropes, and substitute manacles of an easier kind.
He had snapped a pair of police handcuffs on his wrists, as Clement knew, but before that he had put another pair on his ankles; these were linked by a heavy chain to a staple in the wall. The chain was padlocked.
Clement lifted the jug of water with both hands, took a long drink, and then examined the handcuffs on his wrists. In less than a minute one wrist was free. It was quite simple. These handcuffs were ratcheted to take several sizes in wrists. In his hurry the thin man had not pushed the ratchet of the right cuff beyond the first notch. Clement was what might be called a third notch man—hence he had no difficulty in slipping his wrist out.
The leg irons presented a graver problem. Unable to get them off with his hands, he searched about for some means of removing them. He was lucky. With difficulty he unearthed from a box full of odd tools, a hacksaw. With this slowly and patiently, and with his attention always alert for movements in the house, he sawed through the connecting links of the ankle irons.
It was a tedious and painful business. He heard the mid-day “break” sound from scores offactory sirens, but he worked on trying not to think of what might be happening to Heloise.
She would remain on in Quebec, he told himself. She could not hurry away, she would not leave without seeing him. He tried to convince himself of this. He would see her in spite of this trap. And after he had talked with her the whole bad business would be ended.
If he thought of Mr. Neuburg and his cunning, he said to himself, “He thinks he has me here safely. He won’t attempt to attract attention by hustling things.”
It was after two o’clock when he got free. Nobody had come up to him. He had thought this would be the case since a day’s supply of food had been left with him. Concealing the ankle cuffs under his socks, and that on his left wrist up his sleeve, he lay down and looked out of the window.
It was overlooking the yard he had studied yesterday from the cliff behind. In that yard nothing was stirring save the “puff-puff-puff” of the steam pipe. From this window to the yard was a sheer drop of some seventy feet. On the other hand, the thin, topmost upright of the fire escape was two feet away from the window, and level with it—if he dared risk that.
He meant to. He forced the dirt-gummed window open, and, laying flat on his stomach, wriggled his body inch by inch out of the narrow window. It was soul chilling. To find himself poised therehalf in and half out of that tube of a window, with nothing to aid him, and with that horrible drop beneath him, unnerved him. He felt himself slipping, going. For one moment he seemed to be clawing the empty air, with the feeling that nothing could save him. He was dropping—