4
They were in a tiny box of a cell furnished with a small wooden table, a wooden chair and a wooden cot with a straw paillasse; all the articles of furniture were securely bolted to the floor. It smelt sour and musty. A faint dismal light came through an iron grille over the door which seemed to be the only means of ventilation.
Valerie dropped limply on to the cot and leaned back against the wall in an attitude of supreme weariness.
'Alone at last,' she said. And then: 'My God, I'm tired.'
'You must be,' said the Saint. 'Why don't you go to sleep?'
She smiled weakly.
'With a man in my room? What would the dear vicar say?'
'Probably the same thing that the Bishop said to the actress.'
'What was that?'
' 'It is a far far bedder thing——' '
''—I do now than I have ever done,'' she said; and then her voice broke. She said huskily: 'Simon . . . will it hurt dreadfully?'
The Saint's mouth felt dry, but the palms of his hands were wet. He knew exactly how cruelly shrewd Luker had been in giving them those few minutes to think. If he had had any doubts before, he could not have kept them long.
The only thing left to discover was what else might be done with the postponement.
He went over and sat down on the end of the cot, beside her, and against the wall. The wall was of naked bricks, roughly laid, and age had mouldered the mortar in many of the courses and neglect had let it crumble away. He felt the surface behind him with his numbed finger tips. It seemed to be harsh and abrasive. . . .
'Does dying frighten you very much ?' he asked gently.
Her head was tilted back against the wall and her eyes were half closed.
'I don't know. . . . Yes, I'd always be terrified. But I don't think I'd mind so much just being shot. This . . . being flogged—to death—it makes me go sort of shuddery deep inside. I want to scream and howl and weep with terror, and I can't. . . . I'm afraid I'd never have been any good to you, Simon. I suppose your girl friend would go to it with a brave smile and her head held high and all that sort of thing, but I can't. I'm afraid I'm going to disgrace you horribly before it's over. . . .'
He was rubbing his bound wrists against the brickwork behind him, tentatively at first, then with a more determined concentration. He could feel the dragging resistance against each movement, could hear the slurred grating sounds that it produced. He bent his head towards her until his lips were almost touching her ear.
'Listen,' he whispered. 'You're not going to be flogged. We can prevent that, at least. But you heard what Luker said. Whatever else happens, we're booked for the firing squad within the next couple of days. So we have to be shot, anyway. Personally I'd rather be shot on the run, and at least give them a fight for their money. I'm going to try to make a getaway. I don't suppose it 'll make a damn bit of difference, but I'm going to try it.'
She looked at him, quickly, as if all her muscles had stiffened. And then they relaxed again.
'Of course—you couldn't take me with you,' she said wistfully. 'I'd only be in the way.'
It was hard to keep the rope pressed firmly enough against the brick and at
