19000 Pound Part 40

If he told the truth--that he did not know where the notes were--he would not be believed. If he did convince the lawyer, then what might happen?

At the fellow's mercy he might be killed, just as the man on the boat had been. Human life, he knew, was no sacred thing to the man who held him prisoner.

To lie or to tell the truth--which should he do?

"How do you shape?" presently inquired the lawyer. "Will you make yourself as comfortable on those beds as you can for the night without bedclothes, and with rodent company, or will you give me the letter I ask for now?"

"I can't give it."

"Very well," said the lawyer, pretending to smile genially, although he was sick at heart at the answer. "Perhaps a night's reflection will make you change your mind;" he drew up the flap as he spoke.

"Good-night."

"G.o.d! Are you going to leave me here in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I am sleeping in the house, and if the loneliness--but you will have plenty of company--if you should change your mind in the night, call out. I shall hear you, and bring a light."

"If I scream for help the neighbors----"

"Will not hear you. Grip that fact, and it will be a breath saver. This house stands off the road in its own grounds. There is not a living being within earshot."

"Leave me a light, man--it's inhuman."

"I am sorry you think that. However, it's your own fault, you know. Give me the letter I want, and I'll lower this lamp to you, and before this time to-morrow night you shall be as free as air."

He waited a minute, holding the flap in his hand. No answer.

"I am sorry you don't see your way to it. You don't mind my shutting this flap, do you? You'll get plenty of ventilation from the barred window. By the by, don't waste strength trying the bars. I tried them before you dropped down, and you can take my word that they are firm enough; while as to the door, it's as solid a piece of oak as was ever carpentered. Accept my a.s.surance that you are as secure as it is possible to make you, will you? Good-night."

He put one of the pieces of lath across a corner of the opening as he spoke, and rested the flap on that.

The square border of light, which those eager eyes in the cellar looked up to, the light of the lamp through the cracks, gradually grew fainter and fainter--the lantern had been lifted.

The light faded, then all was darkness. The prisoner was alone.

CHAPTER XXVII

PECULIAR MESSENGERS

Gerald was alone for some time; he remained in the same position.

He was partly stunned by what had happened. It had all taken place so rapidly, and so unexpectedly, and he feared--greatly--the danger ahead.

Man to man, he would have feared nothing. He was not a coward.

But, as it was, he had a murderer to deal with, and his opponent had the keys.

He considered Loide's character, and he calculated that his own life was a small thing in the lawyers estimation. It was an unwholesome thought.

He turned his head slowly, and then very quickly, for he saw a glimmer of light. It was from the barred window.

The moon was s.h.i.+ning, and would soon o'ertop the trees he could see silhouetted on what was his horizon.

He thought of escape--naturally. But it was a poor thought; he antic.i.p.ated no success.

A point in his favor was his early athletic training. With finger or foothold he would have been a factor to reckon with in an attempt to get out.

Running the whole length of what was his roof were the supporting beams of the floor boards above. They afforded no grip if he got there--and he had to reach them.

He looked at the window. If he ran and sprang high enough, he would be able to grip the bars.

He essayed it--failed at first, but was clinging successfully the second time.

The width between the bars was not great enough for him to put his head through, but he threw up his left leg and hooked the toe of his boot so that he could rest there, and look round without the heavy strain on his arms.

In the semi-darkness he looked out on what appeared to be a long garden with high trees at the bottom.

Behind those trees he knew the moon was coming up, and that presently that awful darkness would be ended.

The rafters above him--they were his only hope of escape.

By means of the window he could reach those beams, and possibly the trap-door, but he feared--horribly feared--that his fingers would slip from the pieces of square wood, which it seemed impossible to grip.

He tried it, however. He got both legs up and through the rails till the thickness of his thighs prevented further protrusion.

He sat there with his calves out of window, resting a moment, and getting ready for his test of strength.

Then, his hands at the top of the bars, and his feet resting at their base, he stretched up first one hand and then the other.

He gripped easily the long timbers--gripped them easily while his weight was supported by his feet, but the moment he hung--well, that same moment he dropped to the ground.

In his fall he did not hurt himself at all--he was prepared for it.

He had known, even while testing it, that the task was a hopeless one; there was nothing to grip in the strict sense of the word; all he could do was to pinch the wood with his fingers, and the difficulty of that operation with one hundred and forty pounds depending is apparent.

He felt his way over to the beds, and lay down; his exertions had fatigued him a bit.

He lay very quietly, thinking--thinking of the possibility of escape, and realizing more and more how hopeless the idea was, how secure was the trap he was in.

He heard a sound and started up--the sound ceased. He called out:

"Who's there?"

And there was a scampering, sc.r.a.ping, scratching noise. What it was burst on him at once. He muttered: