“Kill Steele!” he screamed. “Kill him, Bronson. Damn him—no, no, stay! Get the machine ready … we leave tonight.”
He turned to the girl, glaring at her.
“We leave tonight, Eunice! Tonight you and I will settle accounts!”
XLIII
Her heart sank, and it came to her, with terrifying force, that her great trial was near at hand. She had taunted Digby with his cowardice, but she knew that he would show no mercy to her, and unwillingly she had played into his hands by admitting that she knew she was the heiress to the Danton fortune and that she had known his character, and yet had elected to stay in his house.
The door was slammed and locked, and she was left alone. Later she heard for the second time the splutter and crash of the aeroplane’s engines as the Spaniard tuned them up.
She must get away—she must, she must! She looked round wildly for some means of escape. The windows were fastened. There was no other door from the room. Her only hope was Jim, and Jim, she guessed, was a close prisoner.
Digby lost no time. He dispatched Silva in the car, telling him to make the coast as quickly as possible, and to warn the captain of the Pealigo to be ready to receive him that night. He wrote rapidly a code of signals. When in sight of the sea Bronson was to fire a green signal light, to which the yacht must respond. A boat must be lowered on the shoreward side of the yacht ready to pick them up. After the messenger had left he remembered that he had already given the same orders to the captain, and that it was humanly impossible for the Spaniard to reach the yacht that night.
Digby had in his calmer moments made other preparations. Two inflated life-belts were taken to the aeroplane and tested, signal pistols, landing lights, and other paraphernalia connected with night flying were stowed in the fuselage. Bronson was now fully occupied with the motor of the aeroplane, for the trouble had not been wholly eradicated, and Digby Groat paced up and down the terrace of the house, fuming with impatience and sick with fear.
He had not told the girl to prepare, that must be left to the very last. He did not want another scene. For the last time he would use his little hypodermic syringe and the rest would be easy.
Fuentes joined him on the terrace, for Fuentes was curious for information.
“Do you think that the finding of Villa’s body will bring them after us here?”
“How do I know?” snapped Digby, “and what does it matter, anyway? We shall be gone in an hour.”
“You will,” said the Spaniard pointedly, “but I shan’t. I have no machine to carry me out of the country, and neither has Xavier, though he is better off than I am—he has the car. Couldn’t you take me?”
“It is utterly impossible,” said Digby irritably. “They won’t be here tonight, and you needn’t worry yourself. Before the morning, you will have put a long way between you and Kennett Hall.”
He spoke in Spanish, the language which the man was employing, but Fuentes was not impressed.
“What about that man?” He jerked his thumb to the west wing, and a thought occurred to Digby.
Could he persuade his hitherto willing slave to carry out a final instruction?
“He is your danger,” he said. “Do you realize, my dear Fuentes, that this man can bring us all to destruction? And nobody knows he is here, except you and me.”
“And that ugly Englishman,” corrected Fuentes.
“Masters doesn’t know what has happened to him. We could tell him that he went with us!”
He looked at the other keenly, but Fuentes was purposely stupid.
“Now what do you say, my dear Fuentes,” said Digby, “shall we allow this man to live and give evidence against us, when a little knock on the head would remove him forever?”
Fuentes turned his dark eyes to Digby’s, and he winked.
“Well, kill him, my dear Groat,” he mocked. “Do not ask me to stay behind and be found with the body, for I have a wholesome horror of English gaols, and an unspeakable fear of death.”
“Are you afraid?” asked Digby.
“As afraid as you,” said the Spaniard. “If you wish to kill him, by all means do so. And yet, I do not know that I would allow you to do that,” he mused, “for you would be gone and I should be left. No, no, we will not interfere with our courageous Englishman. He is rather a fine fellow.”
Digby turned away in disgust.
The “fine fellow” at that moment had, by almost superhuman effort, raised himself to his feet. It had required something of the skill of an acrobat and the suppleness and ingenuity of a contortionist, and it involved supporting himself with his head against the wall for a quarter of an hour whilst he brought his feet to the floor; but he had succeeded.
The day was wearing through and the afternoon was nearly gone before he had accomplished this result. His trained ear told him that the aeroplane was now nearly ready for departure, and once he had caught a glimpse of Digby wearing a lined leather jacket. But there was no sign of the girl. As to Eunice, he steadfastly kept her out of his thoughts. He needed all his courage and coolness, and even the thought of her, which, in spite of his resolution, flashed across his mind, brought him agonizing distress.
He hopped cautiously to the window and listened. There was no sound and he waited until Bronson—he guessed it was Bronson—started the engines again. Then with his elbow he smashed out a pane of glass, leaving a jagged triangular piece firmly fixed in the ancient putty.
