“The truth is,” said Mansel, “we ought to have played his game. We shouldn’t have made a sound for twenty-four hours. Then he’d’ve begun to wonder if we were gone: and at last he’d’ve tried to find out and shown his hand. As it is, the positions are reversed, and he’s fairly got us guessing—which is just what he wants.”
This was uncommon sense, but, even whilst I agreed, I found myself supposing that Rose Noble was dead or gone and finding the supposition curiously untoward.
For this strange uncertainty of outlook I have never been able to account: I am not given to imagining vain things, or to letting my fancy fly in the face of fact: yet, though I was not uneasy, my mind would not come to rest, but continually dwelled upon the silence and the prosperous tale which it told.
At last the day was over, and dusk came in.
When it was dark, we opened the Closet windows and shut the trapdoor. Then Mansel set me at a window, with Adèle by my side, and himself to watch the Bedchamber until the moment should come.
The night was most black and still, and I stood leaning out into the thunderous air, straining my ears for the rustle of a rope coming down. …
But none came: and, after a long time, I began to feel sick at heart.
I did not move, for the night was before us, and while it was dark we could hope: but Hanbury was always punctual—and now he was late. …
I do not know how long I stood there, but suddenly my heart bounded as I heard a movement above.
An instant later I had a rope in my hands. …
As I put my weight upon it, another rope brushed my arms, and almost at once, a third.
By my silent direction, Adèle gave one flash with her torch and, in a twinkling, Mansel was by our side.
Himself he tested the ropes: then he bound one about her and lifted her on to the sill.
Adèle put her arms round his neck and pressed her face against his.
So we stayed, waiting. …
Then came a clatter from the passage and the shiver of broken glass.
“My beautiful darling,” said Mansel, and swung her out of the window and into the night.
For a second he watched her rising: then he drew back.
“You next, William,” he said; “as quick as you can.”
At once I leaned out to grope for the other two ropes.
As I did so, a second clatter came from beyond our doors.
“Quick,” breathed Mansel. “That demonstration’s too thin.”
Desperately I flung out both arms, sweeping the air—and found nothing.
“They’re gone,” I cried, drawing back. “They were—”
Mansel was at the next window, leaning out and craning his neck.
As I did the same, a very faint exclamation came down from above.
And then a thick laugh.
“Isn’t that nice?” said Rose Noble.
VII
We Practise to Deceive
Try as I will, I cannot distinctly remember what then took place, and I think that I acted blindly, as a man in a trance.
I know that we were both in the passage, the main doors of which were fast shut, that our rope was dangling from a window and that Mansel was about to go down, when the beam of a torch illumined his head and shoulders, and a bullet sang past his ear.
I know that the light and the shot both came from directly above, so that, placed as we were, we could not so much as reply.
I know that we were both on the terrace and that Mansel was casting the rope in the vain hope of catching a merlon in the noose he had made.
I know that we were both in the antechamber, that the great door was as we had left it and that, whilst I fought like a madman to shift the bolt, Mansel was kneeling beside me with his head in his hands. …
At last I felt a touch on my shoulder, and Mansel got to his feet. I followed him into the Dining-room slowly enough. My head was strangely heavy, and I felt shaken and spent. Had he bade me lie down and sleep, I should have done his bidding without a word. The shock of what we had done had left me listless.
Mansel sat down in a chair, and I sat down in another and waited for him to speak.
To be honest, I hoped he would stay silent, for I could think of no comment upon our case which would not be bitter as death and wholly vain: but, when he began to speak, he did so with such composure as fairly shamed me out of a humour so recreant and so mean.
“Something, of course,” he said quietly, “has happened to George. I can tell you the time when it happened—ten o’clock yesterday night. He was awaiting a message at the foot of the cliff. No doubt he was being watched. And, when the packet fell down, the enemy laid him out and picked it up. When I say ‘George,’ I mean ‘George and the servants,’ of course. They’re not four any more—four effectives: they may not even be three. …
“Point number two—Rose Noble is not alone. He may have been yesterday morning, but he’s certainly not alone now. I suppose he took them in by a rope some time last night. Anyway, he’s smarter than I am, and Punter or Casemate has certainly bested George.
“Point number three—we must get out of this suite. I should never have split our force: and now,
