Presently she heard muffled voices and the door of the tonneau was opened. Then she felt herself being lifted and carried, still rolled in the rug, into some building and upstairs. One, two, three—six flights they went up. A few steps more on the level and she was laid down on something soft. Immediately the rug and gag were taken off and her bonds loosed.
She found herself in a dingy, whitewashed attic with slanting ceilings and a skylight. The lower walls were stained and dirty and the boarded floor looked as if it had not been washed for a year. The furniture consisted of the bed on which she was lying, a chair, a table, a washbasin and jug on an old box, a fireplace with fender and fire irons but no fire, and in a corner a pile of old, untidy books. Over her were bending Style and Gwen Lestrange. They watched her in silence and at the look in their eyes a paralyzing fear again swept over her.
“So you thought you could get off with it,” Style said at last, and his voice was like the snarl of some vicious animal. “You thought you could play the traitor, speaking us fair and taking our money, and all the time spying on us and telling that cursed French what we were doing. You thought you could, did you?”
Molly was not prepared for this direct attack, but she countered as well as she could.
“What do you mean? I didn’t tell anyone what you were doing. Sure how could I when I didn’t know myself?”
Style shook his clenched fist in her face.
“None of that, you traitor!” he answered harshly. “You’ve made the mistake of your life! You thought you had us, but we have you. You’ve betrayed us to French, but French can’t help you now. You’re in our power and you’re going to pay.”
Molly felt his gaze almost as a physical touch. It sapped her strength, but she clutched her courage with both hands.
“I don’t know what you’re meaning. Who is French anyway?”
“Liar!” Style shouted savagely. “Do you think we’re fools? Do you think we act before we’re sure? Let me tell you you’ve been watched. When you were telling French about us on the seat in Charing Cross Gardens yesterday our agent was reading the paper within twenty feet of you! He saw you offering to show French your vanity bag and French’s quick refusal. And we’ve watched you with him before. Fool!” he glared at her, “to think that you could fool us!”
To Molly his abuse seemed to act as a stimulant. She felt her courage coming back.
“Ah,” she retorted, “you’re a bit off the track, Mr. Style. That was me uncle you saw me with. He often meets me and takes me out.”
Gwen Lestrange spoke for the first time.
“Little fool!” she said harshly. “Lies like that will only finish you up.” But Style held up his hand.
“Just tell us his name,” he demanded with a suddenly ingratiating manner and a sly look on his narrow face.
His friendliness terrified Molly even more than his anger. She realized that she had made a mistake and tried to recover.
“French,” she admitted. “I see there’s no good trying to deceive you. And he is an inspector at Scotland Yard. But he’s me uncle for all that and he often takes me out and we’ve never discussed you or your affairs at all.”
Style made a furious gesture.
“You ⸻!” He used a foul name. “Do you know what happens to liars and traitors? Did you ever hear of Smith and the brides of the bath—how he drowned his wives in a bath? Well, that’s what’ll happen to you. There’s a bath in the next room all ready for you. The water rises slowly, slowly, slowly; up to your mouth, up to your nose, over your head. French won’t help you then. Uncle indeed!” He paused and gazed gloatingly down at the helpless girl.
“He is me uncle,” Molly persisted, but in spite of herself her voice faltered.
Again Style raved at her.
“Look here,” he shouted. “You’ll get one chance and one only. Tell us everything that passed between you and French and we’ll let you go.” He lowered his voice and spoke almost in persuasive tones. “Make a clean breast of the whole thing and we’ll put you in the car and drive you to some deserted place from which you can make your way home. You’d like to be back in London, wouldn’t you?”
He paused expectantly, but Molly did not answer.
“I’m sure you’d like to be free and home again. Well, tell us everything and you’ll be there in a couple of hours. Hold back the least fact and you’ll never see London again. No power in heaven or earth can save you. Tell me,” he bent forward again and stared fixedly at her with his sinister eyes till she felt all the strength draining out of her, “tell me, did you ever hear of a young lady named Thurza Darke? Ah, I see you did. And no one but French could have told you. You fool, to give that away! Well,” his look became indescribably evil, “Thurza Darke wouldn’t tell either, and she went and lay in the bath while the water slowly rose. … We had to stop her screams lest they should be heard outside the house. Then after a long time the water rose above her mouth and she didn’t scream any more. … That’s what’ll happen to you. It’s just next door.” He motioned with his hand.
Molly couldn’t speak.
