“So!” he said, looking down at the dying man.
And then he saw the snake, and his face wrinkled. He looked from Mirabelle to the girl on the bed, went over and examined her, but did not attempt to release the strap. It was Mirabelle who did that; Mirabelle who sponged the bruised face and loosened the dress.
So doing, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Come,” said Oberzohn.
“I’m staying here with Joan, until—”
“You come at once, or I will give you to my pretty little friends.” He pointed to the two snakes on the floor who still moved spasmodically.
She had to step past Gurther, but that seemed easier than passing those wriggling, shining black ropes; and, her hand in his, she stumbled up the dark steps and eventually into the clean, sweet air of the night.
He was dressed for a journey; she had noticed that when he appeared. A heavy cloth cap was on his curious-shaped head, and he looked less repulsive with so much of his forehead hidden. Though the night was warm, he wore an overcoat.
They were passing between the wall and the factory when he stopped and put his hand before her mouth. He had heard voices, low voices on the other side of the wall, and presently the scrape of something. Without removing his hand from her face, he half dragged, half pushed her until they were clear of the factory.
She thought they were going back to the house, which was in darkness, but instead, he led her straight along the wall, and presently she saw the bulk of the barge.
“Stay, and do not speak,” he said, and began to turn a rusty wheel. With a squeak and a groan the water-gates opened inwards. What did he intend doing? There was no sign of a boat, only this old dilapidated barge. She was presently to know.
“Come,” he said again.
She was on the deck of the barge, moving forward to its bow, which pointed towards the open gate and the canal beyond.
She heard him puff and groan as he strained at a rope he had found, and then, looking down, she saw the front of the barge open, like the two water-gates of a lock. Displaying remarkable agility, he lowered himself over the edge; he seemed to be standing on something solid, for again he ordered her to join him.
“I will not go,” she said breathlessly, and turning, would have fled, but his hand caught her dress and dragged at her.
“I will drown you here, woman,” he said, and she knew that the threat would have a sequel.
Tremblingly she lowered herself over the edge until her foot touched something hard and yet yielding. He was pushing at the barge with all his might, and the platform beneath her grew in space. First the sharp nose and then the covered half-deck of the fastest motorboat that Mr. Oberzohn’s money could buy, or the ingenuity of builders could devise. The old barge was a boathouse, and this means of escape had always been to his hand. It was for this reason that he lived in a seemingly inaccessible spot.
The men who had been on the canal bank were gone. The propellers revolving slowly, the boat stole down the dark waters, after a short time slipped under a bridge over which streetcars were passing, and headed for Deptford and the river.
Dr. Oberzohn took off his overcoat and laid it tenderly inside the shelter of the open cabin, tenderly because every pocket was packed tight with money.
To Mirabelle Leicester, crouching in the darkness of that sheltered space, the time that passed had no dimension. Once an authoritative voice hailed them from the bank. It was a policeman; she saw him after the boat had passed. A gas-lamp showed the glitter of his metal buttons. But soon he was far behind.
Deptford was near when they reached a barrier which neither ingenuity nor money could pass; a ragged nightbird peered down curiously at the motorboat.
“You can’t get through here, guv’nor,” he said simply. “The lock doesn’t open until high tide.”
“When is this high tide?” asked Oberzohn breathlessly.
“Six o’clock tomorrow morning,” said the voice.
For a long time he saw, stricken to inactivity by the news, and then he sent his engines into reverse and began circling round.
“There is one refuge for us, young miss,” he said. “Soon we shall see it. Now I will tell you something. I desire so much to live. Do you also?”
She did not answer.
“If you cry out, if you will make noises, I will kill you—that is all,” he said; and the very simplicity of his words, the lack of all emphasis behind the deadly earnestness, told her that he would keep his word.
XXII
The Search
“ ’Ware mantraps,” said Gonsalez.
The white beam of his lamp had detected the ugly thing. He struck at it with his stick, and with a vicious snap it closed.
“Here’s one that’s been sprung,” he said, and examined the teeth. “And, what’s more, it has made a catch! There’s blood here.”
Manfred and Digby were searching the ground cautiously. Then Manfred heard the quick intake of his breath, and he stooped again, picked up a strip of braided cloth.
“A man’s,” he said, and his relief betrayed his fear. “Somebody in evening dress, and quite recent.” He looked at his finger. “The blood is still wet.”
Digby showed him the ventilator grating through which he had smelt the incense, and when Leon stooped, the faint aroma still remained.
“We will try the factory first. If that draws blank, we’ll ask Dr. Oberzohn’s guidance, and if it is not willingly given I shall persuade him.” And in the reflected light of the lamp George Manfred saw the hard Leon he knew of old. “This time I shall not promise: my threat will be infinitely milder than my performance.”
They came to the dark entry of the
