The House of the Arrow

figure dropped from the bookcase to the ground and, as Ann reached out her hands to the door, a scarf was whipped about her mouth, stifling her cry. She was jerked back into the room, but her fingers had touched the light switch by the door, and as she stumbled and fell, the room was lighted up. Her assailant fell upon her, driving the breath out of her lungs, and knotted the scarf tightly at the back of her head. Ann tried to lift herself, and recognised with a gasp of amazement that the assailant who pinned her down by the weight of her body and the thrust of her knees was Francine Rollard. Her panic gave place to anger and a burning humiliation. She fought with all the strength of her supple body. But the scarf about her mouth stifled and weakened her, and with a growing dismay she understood that she was no match for the hardy peasant girl. She was the taller of the two, but her height did not avail her; she was like a child matched with a wildcat. Francine’s hands were made of steel. She snatched Ann’s arms behind her back and bound her wrists, as she lay face downwards, her bosom labouring, her heart racing so that she felt that it must burst. Then, as Ann gave up the contest, she turned and tied her by the ankles.

Francine was upon her feet again in a flash. She ran to the door, opened it a little way and beckoned. Then she dragged her prisoner up on to a couch, and Jeanne Leclerc and Espinosa slipped into the room.

“It’s done?” said Espinosa.

Francine laughed.

“Ah, but she fought, the pretty baby! You should have given her the coffee. Then she would have walked with us. Now she must be carried. She’s wicked, I can tell you.”

Jeanne Leclerc twisted a lace scarf about the girl’s face to hide the gag over her mouth, and, while Francine held her up, set her white cloak about her shoulders and fastened it in front. Espinosa then turned out the light and drew back the curtains.

The room was at the back of the house. In the front of the window the park stretched away. But it was the park of a French château, where the cattle feed up to the windows, and only a strip about the front terrace is devoted to pleasure-gardens and fine lawns. Espinosa looked out upon meadow-land thickly studded with trees, and cows dimly moving in the dusk of the summer night like ghosts. He opened the window, and the throb of the music from the ballroom came faintly to their ears.

“We must be quick,” said Espinosa.

He lifted the helpless girl in his arms and passed out into the park. They left the window open behind them, and between them they carried their prisoner across the grass, keeping where it was possible in the gloom of the trees, and aiming for a point in the drive where a motorcar waited halfway between the house and the gates. A blur of light from the terrace and ornamental grounds in front of it became visible away upon their left, but here all was dark. Once or twice they stopped and set Ann upon her feet, and held her so, while they rested.

“A few more yards,” Espinosa whispered and, stifling an oath, he stopped again. They were on the edge of the drive now, and just ahead of him he saw the glimmer of a white dress and close to it the glow of a cigarette. Swiftly he put Ann down again and propped her against a tree. Jeanne Leclerc stood in front of her and, as the truants from the ballroom approached, she began to talk to Ann, nodding her head like one engrossed in a lively story. Espinosa’s heart stood still as he heard the man say:

“Why, there are some others here! That is curious. Shall we see?”

But even as he moved across the drive, the girl in the white dress caught him by the arm.

“That would not be very tactful,” she said with a laugh. “Let us do as we would be done by,” and the couple sauntered past.

Espinosa waited until they had disappeared. “Quick! Let us go!” he whispered in a shaking voice.

A few yards farther on they found Espinosa’s closed car hidden in a little alley which led from the main drive. They placed Ann in the car. Jeanne Leclerc got in beside her, and Espinosa took the wheel. As they took the road to the Val Terzon a distant clock struck eleven. Within the car Jeanne Leclerc removed the gag from Ann Upcott’s mouth, drew the sack over her and fastened it underneath her feet. At the branch road young Espinosa was waiting with his motorcycle and sidecar.

“I can add a few words to that story, Mademoiselle,” said Hanaud when she had ended. “First, Michel Le Vay went later into the library, and bolted the window again, believing you to be well upon your way to Paris. Second, Espinosa and Jeanne Leclerc were taken as they returned to Madame Le Vay’s ball.”

XXV

What Happened on the Night of the 27th

“We are not yet quite at the end,” said Hanaud, as he sat with Frobisher for awhile upon the lawn after Ann Upcott had gone in. “But we are near to it. There is still my question to be answered. ‘Why was the communicating door open between the bedroom of Madame Harlowe and the treasure-room on the night when Ann Upcott came down the stairs in the dark?’ When we know that, we shall know why Francine Rollard and Betty Harlowe between them murdered Madame Harlowe.”

“Then you believe Francine Rollard had a hand in that crime too?” asked Jim.

“I am sure,” returned Hanaud. “Do you remember the experiment I made, the little scene of reconstruction? Betty Harlowe stretched out upon the bed to represent Madame, and Francine whispering