He paused for a moment, as though expecting her to speak; but, as she said nothing, he continued in the same tone:
“You think that the worst we could do to you would be to hand you over to Aird, there, or to share you amongst us. You can make your mind easy. It’s not going to be that.”
The wave of relief which passed over Cressida at this hint was followed by a chill of apprehension as she realised the full implication of his words. He did not keep her on tenterhooks long.
“Ever heard of hydrophobia? Know much about it? No? Well, then, I’ll tell you something. You get bitten by a mad dog. First of all you feel tired and restless; and naturally you can’t help being worried a bit. Then, after a day or two, things get a bit more definite. You can’t swallow, and you get a thirst that torments you. Then, they say, you get spasms even at the thought of drinking; and you get into a state of devilish funk—unspeakable terror, they say in the books. After that you get fits—frothing at the mouth, and all the rest of the jolly business. And, of course, eventually you die after considerable agony, if you get the proper dose. I’d hate to see a pretty girl like you afflicted in that way. Dreadful waste of good material.”
He paused deliberately, letting this picture sink into her mind, and scanning her face to see the effect which he had produced.
“No mad dogs here, of course; but they have them in France. I’ve a French medical friend who’s kindly supplied me with some extract taken from one of them.”
Again he paused, to let anticipation do its work.
“If you get injected with this extract, or whatever it is, there’s only one hope. Within a certain number of days you’ve got to get to a Pasteur Institute and put yourself under treatment there. Nothing else is any good. And, if you overshoot the time, even the Pasteur Institute can do nothing for you. You just go on till you froth at the mouth, get cramp in the throat, and die that rather disgusting death.”
He looked down at Cressida’s face, with its eyes dark with horror; and something which might have been a smile passed over his shattered countenance.
“My French medical friend supplied me with both the bane and the antidote—at least, enough of the antidote for a first dose. You see the point? Perhaps I’d better be precise. Here’s a hypodermic syringe.”
He produced a little nickel case from his pocket, and drew from it a tiny glass syringe, to which he fitted a hollow needle.
“I’m going to fill this with some of the mad dog extract and inject it into your arm. Once that’s done, your only chance is to get Pasteur Institute treatment within a certain time or else rely on me to give you a first dose of the antidote before the time’s up. Once the time’s past without treatment, nothing can save you. I couldn’t do it myself, even with the antidote. You’d simply go through all the stages I’ve told you about, and then die.”
He fingered the tiny syringe thoughtfully.
“Now do you see the ingenuity of my plan? I’m going to inject some of the stuff into your veins now. Then we’ll keep you here until the very last moment of your safety. Then you’ll come with me and get spliced by special license. By that time it’ll be too late to get to an institute; you’ll have no chance whatever except the dose of antidote that I’ve got. And you won’t get that from me until we’re safely married without any fuss. You’ll stand up in public and say: ‘I will!’ without any objection, because it’ll be your one chance of escaping the cramps and all the rest of it. Ingenious, isn’t it? Shall I repeat it, in case you’ve missed any of the points? It’s no trouble, I assure you.”
Cressida glanced from face to face in the hope of seeing some signs of relenting; but none of the three showed the faintest trace of pity.
“Be sensible, miss,” said Aird, with the air of one reasoning with a wayward child. “A pretty girl like you wouldn’t want to be seen frothin’ at the mouth and runnin’ round bitin’ people. It wouldn’t be nice.”
His unctuous tone brought up all Cressida’s reserves of strength.
“You’d never dare do it,” she gasped.
“You think so?” the faceless man inquired indifferently. “Well, you’ll see in a moment or two.”
He rose with the hypodermic syringe in his hand and went out of the room. She could hear him doing something with a sink, and the sound of water. At that her nerve gave way.
“Oh, don’t do it! Please, please don’t! Anything but that! Please!”
For the first time she realised that this hideous scheme was seriously meant; and the pictures which flashed through her mind appalled her. To pass out of life was one thing; but to go out by the gate of madness—and such a form of madness—seemed an unbearable prospect. To die like a mad dog—anything would be better than that!
“Oh, don’t!”
She gazed up at the faces of the two men who stood beside her in the hope that in this last moment they might flinch from carrying the foul business through. But there was no comfort in what she saw. Aird was evidently drinking in her torment with avidity. It was something which seemed to give him a positive pleasure. The stranger shrugged his shoulders, as though suggesting that the matter had been irrevocably settled. Neither of them made any answer to her hysterical pleading.
The man with the hypodermic came back into the room; and she hid her face as he crossed to the side of the bed. Her arm
