“Did you see Druze again?”
Greta shook her head.
“No—the language she used before the shooting started!” Greta shuddered. “I simply couldn’t repeat half the words she employed. Of course, Anita sent me out of the room; said she didn’t know I was there; but just as I started to go out, my dear—bang!” Mrs. Gurden grew dramatic and illustrative. “Bang! And then everything went dark. You know how it does, my dear.”
“I can’t understand quite,” said Leslie. “A few hours after the shooting I found you at Lady Raytham’s.”
“She sent me—Anita,” Mrs. Gurden broke in. “ ‘Go to Jane, but tell her nothing,’ said Anita. ‘Find out all that you can about Druze—how they parted, if she threatened her.’ Those were her words. You know Anita, she’s—what is the word?—imperious! I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels—like that Mr. What’s-his-name who’s written a story about women. I simply had to. And not an idea in my head that a beastly bullet had gone into my leg. The doctor said that if I hadn’t run about the wound would have healed right away. It was only when I got home—my dear, I nearly died.” She paused to take breath. “I suppose she’ll come tomorrow and ask me to go back. I’m such a forgiving nature—”
“If there is anything in life that you value, you will stay here, Mrs. Gurden,” said Leslie quietly. “I don’t want to frighten you, but I think it is my duty to warn you that the Princess Bellini’s course is nearly run. As to Druze—”
She had never thought that Druze was murdered; always she had at the back of her mind the possibility of a struggle in which the shots were accidentally fired. There was a good and sufficient reason why Anita Bellini should not shoot the mock butler.
When she reached her flat, the front door was closed. She opened it and turned on the passage light. Lucretia and the grips were gone, she saw with satisfaction. In the letter-box was a blue-lettered cablegram, and she snatched it out and opened it. This was a reply to one she had sent on her way back from lunch, and she read the message and could have sung in her joy.
She ran up the stairs, her mind divided between this blessed message and her interview with Greta Gurden. Greta was in revolt; that much was clear. But how far would her rage and venom carry her towards a complete betrayal of her employer? As she passed the hall window she noticed that the new safety-catch was in place. Really it was ridiculous to leave the flat at all, she thought. After that one abortive attempt it was not likely that a second would be made.
She almost regretted now that she had agreed to Mr. Coldwell’s plan. Throwing open the door of her sitting-room, she put out her hand and turned the light switch. But the room remained in darkness. Had they replaced the fuses? she wondered, and walked into the room.
There was no sound, no warning. A great hand suddenly gripped her throat, another covered her mouth. She felt the pressure of a knee in her back, and struggled desperately but unavailingly.
“You scream—you killed!” hissed a voice in her ear, and, summoning all her strength, she tried to nod in agreement with the unspoken demand of her captor.
The door closed softly behind her. There were two men. She felt her ankles gripped and lifted, and she was carried into the bedroom and laid on the bed.
“You scream—you killed!” said the voice again.
The grip about her throat relaxed, but the evil-smelling hand was still on her face.
“I won’t scream,” she managed to mumble, and the stifling palm was removed.
“You scream, I cut your t’roat. You not scream, I not cut you t’roat—not hurt.”
“I shan’t scream,” she said in a low voice. “May I get up, please?”
There was a whispered consultation in a language which held some gutturals, and then the man who had first spoken said:
“You sit on a chair, keep very quiet, long time, long time.”
He gripped her by the arm and assisted her back to the dining-room, guiding her to a chair, though there was enough light from a street lamp for her to pick her way.
There were two men—little men; their heads were not much above her shoulder. Broad, squat, and, as she had reason to know, immensely strong. She could not see their faces; by accident or arrangement their backs were to the window. He who was evidently chief of the two said something in an unknown language, and his companion withdrew to the landing, and the hall and landing lights went out. Presently he came back, and, to her surprise, he was joined by a third. Again there was a whispered consultation, and the third man disappeared, the other two squatting on the carpet before her, impassive, silent, watching, as she guessed, with eyes that did not leave her for a second. A quarter of an hour they sat thus, and then:
“I speak English liddle bit. I hear English well,” said the man. “I tell you trut’. Last night Nigara cut your t’roat. This night he not hurt.” He added a phrase she could not understand.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“Presently, by-and-by,” said the little man, after he had repeated her words slowly and had grasped their meaning, “you and me walk into carriage. While you walk you see peoples. If you speak to peoples I cut you t’roat.”
Very definite, but the repetition of the phrase amused her mildly.
“You’re rather monotonous, aren’t you?” she asked. “And after I get into the carriage, what happens?”
There was a pause while he took this in.
“By-and-by you see,” he said.
The third man came back now, and she gathered that he was in reality the leading member of the gang, for on his word the two others
