“He has power in the house—a dynamo and a gas engine,” explained Gonsalez.
Poiccart had been to town and had returned with a long and heavy steel cylinder, which Leon and Manfred carried between them into the open and left. They were sniped vigorously from the roof, and although the firing was rather wild, the officer in charge of the operations forbade any further movement in daylight.
At midnight came the blessed Washington. They had been waiting for him with eagerness, for he, of all men, knew something that they did not know. Briefly, Leon described the snake-room and its contents. He was not absolutely certain of some of the species, but his description was near enough to give the snake expert an idea of the species.
“Yes, sir, they’re all deadly,” said Washington, shaking his head. “I guess there isn’t a thing there, bar the scorps, who wouldn’t put a grown man to sleep in five minutes—ten minutes at the most.”
They showed him the remains of the dead snake and he instantly recognized the kind, as the zoological expert had done in the afternoon.
“That’s mamba. He’s nearly the deadliest of all. You didn’t see a fellow with a long bill-shaped head? You did? Well, that’s fer-de-lance, and he’s almost as bad. The little red fellows were corals. …”
Leon questioned him more closely.
“No, sir, they don’t leap—that’s not their way. A tree snake will hang on to something overhead and get you as you pass, and they’ll swing from the floor, but their head’s got to touch the floor first. The poor little fellow that killed Gurther was scared, and when they’re scared they’ll lash up at you—I’ve known a man to be bitten in the throat by a snake that whipped up from the ground. But usually they’re satisfied to get your leg.”
Leon told him his plan.
“I’ll come along with you,” said Washington without hesitation.
But this offer neither of the three would accept. Leon had only wanted the expert’s opinion. There were scores of scientists in London, curators of museums and keepers of snakes, who could have told him everything there was to be known about the habits of the reptile in captivity. He needed somebody who had met the snake in his native environment.
An hour before daylight showed in the sky, there was a council of war, Leon put his scheme before the authorities, and the plan was approved. He did not wait for the necessary orders to be given, but, with Poiccart and Manfred, went to the place where they had left the cylinder, and, lifting it, made their slow way towards the house. In addition, Leon carried a light ladder and a small bag full of tools.
The rays of the searchlight were moving erratically, and for a long time did not come in their direction. Suddenly they found themselves in a circle of dazzling light and fell flat on their faces. The machine-gun spat viciously, the earth was churned up under the torrent of bullets, but none of the men was hit; and, more important, the cylinder was not touched.
Then suddenly, from every part of the ground, firing started. The target was the searchlight, and the shooting had not gone on for more than a minute before the light went out, so jerkily that it was obvious that one bullet at least had got home.
“Now,” said Manfred, and, lifting up the cylinder, they ran.
Poiccart put his hand on the fence wire and was hurled back. The top wire was alive, but evidently the doctor’s dynamo was not capable of generating a current that would be fatal. Leon produced an insulated wire cutter and snipped off a six-foot length, earthing the broken ends of the wire. They were now under the shadow of the wall of the house, and out of danger so far as bullets were concerned.
Leon planted his ladder against the window under which they stopped, and in a second had broken the glass, turned the catch and sent up the sash. From his bag he produced a small diamond drill and began to work through the thick steel plate. It was a terribly arduous job, and after ten minutes’ labour he handed over the work to Manfred, who mounted in his place.
Whatever damage had been done to the searchlight had now been repaired, and its beam had concentrated on the spot where they had been last seen. This time no fusillade greeted its appearance, and Oberzohn was surprised and troubled by the inaction.
The light came into the sky, the walls grew grey and all objects sharply visible, when he saw the tank move out of the lane where it had been standing all the previous day, turn into the field, and slowly move towards the house. He set his teeth in a grin and, darting down the stairs, flung himself against the door of the girl’s room, and his agitation was such that for a time he could not find the keyhole of the two locks that held the door secure.
It opened with a crash, and he almost fell into the room in his eagerness. Mirabelle Leicester was standing by the bed, her face white as death. Yet her voice was steady, almost unconcerned, when she asked: “What do you want?”
“You!” he hissed. “You, my fine little lady—you are for the snakes!”
He flung himself upon her, though she offered no resistance, threw her back on the bed and snapped a pair of rusty handcuffs on her wrists. Pulling her to her feet, he dragged her from the room and down the stairs. He had some difficulty in opening the door of the snake-room, for he had wedged it close. The door was pushed open at last: the radiators were no longer burning. He could not afford the power. But the room was stiflingly hot, and when he turned on the lights, and she saw the long
