But Molly found it utterly impossible to fix her attention on it. Her own position was too precarious to allow her to think of anything else. Throwing the manuscript book back into the corner, she sat down on the bed, buried her head in her hands and gave herself up to a detailed consideration of the situation.
She was trapped. Could she do anything to help herself? That was the burden of her thoughts. The problem had been in her mind subconsciously since her capture, but now she set herself definitely to think of ways of escape.
But the more she thought, the less hopeful the idea seemed. There was first of all the door. She got up and examined it. Opening inwards, it was strongly made and fitted with a mortise lock whose heavy bolt she could see passing across the narrow slit between the edge and the jamb. In no way could she force the door.
The chimney she could see at a glance was impossible. Even if she could have climbed it, the opening above the fireplace was too small to allow her to pass.
There being no windows, there remained only the skylight. Could she get out through the skylight?
She lay back on the bed, gazing up at the cobweb covered square and calculating her chances. If she moved the bed beneath it, put the old box supplied as a washstand on the bed and put the chair on the box, she might be able to reach high enough. Suddenly eager, she sat up, listening intently. Not a sound reached her from the house. She decided to try the experiment at once. Her head still throbbed from the effects of the blow and she would rather have lain still. But the faint hope which had been aroused nerved her to effort.
Moving quietly and making as little noise as possible, she pulled the bed to the necessary position and built her tower. A moment later she was looking through the glass.
But there was not much within view. A vast area of sky and the tops of a row of distant trees alone were visible. And when she tried to push up the skylight a further disappointment awaited her. It was fastened. Through one of the holes in the handle a screw had been passed. She tried to move the screw, but it was too firmly fixed.
For a moment she thought of breaking the glass, but she saw immediately that the metal bars of the frame were too close for her to squeeze between them. Baffled, she got down and stood thinking.
There seemed to be nothing that she could do. Slowly she took down the chair and the table and pushed the bed back to its place. She lay down, her thoughts approaching more nearly to despair than at any time since her capture. How she wished she had minded French’s warning! What a fool she had been to imagine that she could stand up against members of a gang of this kind! What reason had she to imagine she was abler or cleverer than Thurza Darke? Oh, if when she saw Style she had just passed on with a bow and smile! If only she had done that she might now be sitting in her pay-box at the Panopticon! She had been bored to tears with that box times without number, but now how she longed for it! She would have given all she possessed to be once more within its familiar walls. But no wishing would get her there.
Slowly the interminable hours dragged away, while the square of sunshine from the skylight crept across the wall, narrowed to a line and disappeared. Presently she realized that she was desperately hungry. She had had no lunch and now it was after . Surely they couldn’t mean to starve her?
While she was considering the idea she dropped into a light sleep. She was roused by the rattling of the key in the door and sat up blinking as Style entered with a tray on which was set out a plain but sufficient supper.
“Asleep?” he said in some surprise. “It’s well for you that you can take your position so easily! Or is it that you have not realized its seriousness?” He paused; then as Molly did not reply, went on: “Or perhaps you have come to your senses and decided to tell what you know?”
“I know nothing about what you have asked.”
Style shrugged. “Oh, very well,” he answered. “Have it your own way. I’m sorry. We didn’t want any more cases like Thurza Darke’s, but it’s your say.” He put down the tray, then suddenly spoke with extreme earnestness. “For heaven’s sake, Molly Moran, don’t be such a fool! Thurza Darke took the same line as you. She’s dead now. Don’t think I’m bluffing when I assure you that you’ll die too if you don’t do what we want. We offer you the choice of that or of freedom. Don’t be such a darned fool!”
For a moment Molly was tempted to tell of her interviews with French. Then something in his face, a look in his eyes, assured her that she was being deceived. There was no mercy there. They would never let her go. Her only chance was to keep them hoping for information as long as possible, so as to give
