Again the handle turned, but the door did not move. Whoever it was had not the key. There was a silence. Somebody was trying to break in the door and she caught a glimpse of a huge, misshapen toe in the space between the door and the floor. Then, from under the door, came three huge, squat fingers. They were wet and red with blood. The hand gripped the bottom of the door and strove to lift it. At the sight of that obscene hand the spell was broken, and she screamed, and, turning, fled in desperate panic to the chair beneath the skylight. As she looked up she saw a face staring down at her through the window—the white face of Cawler, the chauffeur.
XX
It was more than accident that took Dick Martin to the library that previous afternoon. He had come to feel that a day without a glimpse of this tantalizing girl was a day wasted. And he remembered, with a sense of virtuous pride, that he was a subscriber and entitled to walk into this sedate establishment and demand, if he so desired, the most unintelligible volumes on biophysics.
“Miss Lansdown is gone,” said one of the officials. “It is her early day. She went away with a lady.”
“With her mother?” he asked.
“No,” said the girl, shaking her head; “it wasn’t Mrs. Lansdown. I know her very well. It was a lady who drove up to the door in a Rolls. I’ve never seen her before.”
There was nothing remarkable in this. Although she was beginning to fill a large space of his life, Dick scarcely knew the girl, and certainly knew nothing of her friends. He was disappointed, for he had intended, on the lamest excuse, to take her to tea that afternoon. He waited till nearly seven before he called at Coram Street. Here his excuse for the visit was even lamer, and he accounted this one of his unlucky days when Mrs. Lansdown smilingly told him that the girl had telephoned, in her absence, to say that she would not be home to dinner.
“She has a girl friend and often dines with her—probably she will go on to a theatre afterwards. Won’t you stay and keep me company at dinner, Mr. Martin? Though I’m afraid I’m rather an uninteresting substitute for Sybil!”
He was glad to accept the invitation, hoping that before he left, Sybil would put in an appearance; but, though he prolonged his visit to the limits of politeness, she had not returned when he took his leave at eleven o’clock. Until then he had not made any reference to the story the librarian had told him.
“Your daughter’s friend is a fairly rich young lady?” he asked.
Mrs. Lansdown was surprised.
“No, indeed, she works for her living; she is a cashier in a drug store.”
She saw the frown gather on his face, and asked quickly:
“Why?”
“Somebody called for Sybil with a car—a Rolls,” he said; “somebody that the librarian did not know.”
Mrs. Lansdown smiled.
“That isn’t very remarkable. Jane Allen isn’t very rich, but she has a number of very wealthy relatives, and probably it was her aunt who called.”
He lingered outside the house for a quarter of an hour, consuming three cigarettes before, a thoroughly dissatisfied man, he walked home. His uneasiness he analysed to his own discredit. He was not considering, he told himself, whether the girl was in any kind of scrape, and the real secret of his annoyance was purely personal and selfish.
His flat seemed strangely empty that night. As was his wont, he walked through all the rooms, and paid particular attention to the little kitchen balcony. Behind every door he had put a portable alarm, a tiny triangle to which was attached a bell, the apex of the triangle being fixed in the wood of the door, so that any attempt to open it would assuredly arouse him. This done, he switched the telephone through to his room, undressed slowly, and went to bed.
Sleep did not come easily, and he took a book and read. The clock was striking one as he dozed off. He was half awake and half asleep when the telephone bell sounded in the passage, and, putting on the light, he sat up and took the instrument from the table by the bed.
“Hullo!”
“Trunk call,” said a man’s voice.
There was a click, a silence, and then:
“Murder. … I’m being murdered. … Oh, God! They are here … the boys … murder!”
His spine crept.
“Who is it speaking?” he asked quickly.
There was no answer.
“Who are you? Where are you speaking from?”
Still no answer. Then a deep groan and a curse, a shriek that ended in a thick sob.
“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me. Help!”
There was a crash, and no further sound. Dick worked rapidly at the hanger of the telephone and presently got the exchange.
“Where was I called from?”
“Somewhere in Sussex,” said the local man. “Do you want me to find out?”
“Yes—and quick! I’m Mr. Martin, of Scotland Yard. Will you call me?”
“I’ll ring you in a minute,” was the reply.
Instantly Dick was out of bed and dressing with feverish haste. The voice he had not recognized, but some instinct told him that this call was no hoax and that he had listened in to the very act of slaughter. He dare not ring Sneed, in case he interfered with the call which was coming through.
He was lacing his shoes when the bell rang.
“It was from South Weald, Sussex—”
Dick uttered an oath. Cody’s house! It was Cody speaking; he remembered the voice now.
“Get the nearest police station to South
