Something touched the end of the rod, pushing it aside. Mr. Reeder turned the switch and a blinding ray of light leapt from the lamp and focused in a circle on the opposite wall of the corridor.
The door was open, but there was nothing human in sight.
And then, despite his wonderful nerve, his flesh began to go goosey, and a cold sensation tingled up his spine. Somebody was there—hiding—waiting for the man who carried the lamp, as they thought, to emerge.
Reaching out at a full arm’s length, he thrust the end of the rod through the doorway into the corridor.
Swish!
Something struck the rod and snapped it. The lamp fell on the floor, lens uppermost, and flooded the ceiling of the corridor. In an instant Reeder was off the bed, moving swiftly, till he came to the cover afforded by the wide-open door. Through the crack he had a limited view of what might happen outside.
There was a deadly silence. In the hall downstairs a clock ticked solemnly, whirred, and struck the quarter to three. But there was no movement; nothing came within the range of the upturned lamp, until—
He had just a momentary flash of vision. The thin white face; the hairy lips parted in a grin; wild dirty white hair, and a bald crown; a short bristle of white beard; a claw-like hand reaching for the lamp—
Pistol or rubber? Mr. Reeder elected the rubber. As the hand closed over the lamp, he left the cover of the room and struck. He heard a snarl like that of a wild beast; then the lamp was extinguished as the apparition staggered back, snapping the thin wire.
The corridor was in darkness. He struck again and missed; the violence of the stroke was such that he overbalanced and fell on one knee, and the truncheon flew from his grasp. He threw out his hand, gripped an arm, and with a quick jerk brought his capture into the room and switched on the light.
A round, soft hand, covered with a silken sleeve—
As the lights leapt to life, he found himself looking into the pale face of Olga Crewe!
X
For a moment they stared at one another, she fearfully, he amazed. Olga Crewe!
Then he became conscious that he was still gripping her arm, and let it drop. The arm fascinated Mr. Reeder—he scarcely looked at anything else.
“I am very sorry,” said Mr. Reeder. “Where did you come from?”
Her lips were quivering; she tried to speak, but no words came. Then she mastered her momentary paralysis and began to speak, slowly, laboriously:
“I—heard—a noise—in—the—corridor—and—came—out. A noise—I—was—frightened.”
She was rubbing her arm mechanically; he saw a red welt where his hand had gripped. The wonder was that he had not broken her arm.
“Is—anything—wrong?”
Every word was created and articulated painfully. She seemed to be considering its formation before her tongue gave it sound.
“Where is the light switch in the hall?” asked Mr. Reeder. This was a more practical matter—he lost interest in her arm.
“Opposite my room.”
“Turn it on,” he said, and she obeyed meekly.
Only when the corridor was illuminated did he step out of his room, and even then in some doubt, if the Browning in his hand meant anything.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked again. By now she had taken command of herself. A little colour had come to her white face, but the live eyes were still beholding terrible visions.
“Did you see anything in the passage?” he answered.
She shook her head slowly.
“No, I saw nothing—nothing. I heard a noise and I came out.”
She was lying—he did not trouble to doubt this. She had had time to pull on her slippers and find the flimsy wrap she wore, and the fight had not lasted more than two seconds. Moreover, he had not heard her door open; therefore it had been open all the time, and she had been spectator or audience of all that had happened.
He went down the corridor, retrieved his rubber truncheon, and came back to her. She was half standing, half leaning against the door post, rubbing her arm. She was staring past him so intently that he looked round, though there was nothing to be seen.
“You hurt me,” she said simply.
“Did I? I’m sorry.”
The mark on the white flesh had gone blue, and Mr. Reeder was naturally a sympathetic man. Yet, if the truth be told, there was nothing of sorrow in his mind at that moment. Regret, yes. But the regret had nothing to do with her hurt.
“I think you’d better go to your bed, young lady. My nightmare is ended. I hope yours will end as quickly, though I shall be surprised if it does. Mine is for the moment; yours, unless I am greatly mistaken, is for life!”
Her dark, inscrutable eyes did not leave his face as she spoke.
“I think it must have been a nightmare,” she said. “It will last all my life? I think it will!”
With a nod she turned away, and presently he heard her door close and the lock fasten.
Mr. Reeder went back to the far side of his bed, pulled up a chair and sat down. He did not attempt to close the door. Whilst his room was in darkness, and the corridor lighted, he did not expect a repetition of his bad and substantial dream.
The rubber truncheon was a mistake, he admitted regretfully. He wished he had not such a repugnance to a noisier weapon. He laid the pistol on the cover of the bed within reach of his hand. If the bad dream came again—
Voices!
The murmur of a whispered colloquy and a fierce, hissing whisper that dominated the others. Not in the corridor, but in the hall below. He tiptoed to the door and listened.
Somebody laughed under his breath, a strange, bloodcurdling little laugh; then he heard a key turn and a door open, and a voice demand:
“Who is there?”
It was Margaret. Her room
