'Please do as I ask.'
Two chairs were drawn up on either side of Vicky, ahead and a little in front of her. Sharpless and Ann Browning sat at one side. Arthur sat at the other side, near the empty chair which had been Hubert's. Dr. Rich stood in the midst of this semi-circle, facing Vicky. He allowed the silence to lengthen again before he spoke.
'Victoria Fane,' he said softly. The same eerie voice froze them again. 'You hear me. You hear me, but you will not yet awake.' He paused.
'Victoria Fane, I am your master. My will is your law. Now speak. Repeat after me: 'You are my master, and your will is my law.' '
It was as though the voice had. to travel a long way. After perhaps three seconds, the dummy figure in the chair stirred. A shiver went through Vicky's body. Her head rolled a little to one side. Her lips moved.
' 'You are—' ' Everyone jumped when she spoke. It was a whisper; it was not even Vicky's voice; it was like a grotesque echo of the voice which had begun to cut away her soul. ' 'You are my master,' ' it whispered, ' 'and your will is my law.' '
' 'Whatever I am asked to do, that I will do without question. For this is for my own good.' '
The figure in the chair struggled, and became limp.
' 'Whatever I am asked to do,' ' it replied colorlessly, ' 'that I will do. For this is for my own good.' '
' 'Without question!' '
' 'Without-question.' '
Rich drew a deep breath.
'Now you will awaken,' he said. 'Open your eyes. Sit up. Gently now.'
Rich's fierce gesture silenced him; the brief glance Rich gave over his shoulder kept him silent.
The person looking back at them from the chair was not Vicky Fane. At least, it was not any Vicky Fane they had ever known. From her eyes, even from her whole face, all those qualities which render a face recognizable as human — intelligence, will, character — had all been drained away. It breathed, and it was warm; but it remained clay. In that utter lack of intelligence, even her good looks seemed to have disappeared.
Vicky sat up quietly, without curiosity. She did not blink in the light.
'I warned you,' muttered Rich, moistening his lips. 'Now watch.'
He spoke to his victim.
'On the floor over there by the window, where I put them when I moved the telephone table,' he said, 'you will find a cigarette box and a box of matches. Bring me a cigarette and a match.'
Arthur Fane began, 'There's no match b—' But again Rich's glance imposed silence.
The animal in the chair got to her feet.
She walked straight ahead of her. Without looking at it, she passed the little round table which held the revolver and the dagger.
It was darkish at the other end of the room. Reaching the windows, she bent down. She seemed to peer and grope, searching. She pounced on the silver cigarette box, took a cigarette out of it, and pushed it aside. Then she searched for the box of matches; the high heels of her slippers creaked and cracked on the bad flooring as she searched. The seconds lengthened. From Vicky Fane came suddenly a little moaning cry.
'She can't find it, you see,' said Rich.
'This is plain cruelty,' said Sharpless, who was white to his lips. 'I won't have it any longer.'
'You won't have it, Captain Sharpless?' inquired Arthur.
'Never mind the matches. You needn't bring me a match,' said Rich. His voice was soothing. It reached out softly across the room. It seemed to draw a blanket of warmth round her shoulders as she stood trembling. 'Bring me the cigarette instead.'
Vicky did so.
Rich looked at the grand piano in the corner by the windows.
'She plays?' Rich asked Arthur.
'Yes, but-'
'Sit down at the piano;' Rich instructed softly. 'You are happy, my dear. Very happy. Play something. Sing or hum it as you do, to show us you are happy.'
Something was wrong again. Vicky's fingers rested on the keys of the piano. The piano was in gloom; Vicky's back was turned to them some distance away. Yet she seemed to be struggling with herself.
'I command you, my dear. Play anything. Any—'
The piano tinkled, and its keys ran softly.
The voice, which had been trying to hum raggedly, broke off in a sob.
'That will be enough,' Rich said quickly.
His expression changed. It was now very grave. Rich's eyes, now grown sharp and shrewd and suspicious, moved round the group. He ran a hand across his bald skull, down to die roll of gray-streaked hair over his collar. He was human again, and very much troubled.
'Gentlemen,' he said, 'gentlemen, I think I've been in danger of making a grave mistake. I should not have consented to do this until I — investigated. Has Mrs. Fane any association with that particular song?'
'Not that I know of,' replied Arthur, with dreary surprise. 'Unless, of course, Captain Sharpless can tell us?'
Rich glanced at Sharpless's face. 'I think we had better end this.' 'And I think not,' said Arthur Fane. 'You insist on that, sir?'
'You, sir, promised to show us something. You have not yet done so.'
'As you like,' breathed Rich. 'Sit down again, then.' He waited until the three spectators had done so. 'Victoria Fane, walk up to the table in the middle of the room. On that table you will find a loaded revolver. Pick it up.'
In the group, it was as though nobody dared to draw his breath. Ann Browning, who had not uttered a word, was bending forward with her knees crossed and her slim hands gripped round them. Her gold hair caught the light. The color in her cheeks, the brilliant shining of her pale blue eyes, made a contrast to the shabby, tear-streaked face of the automaton.
'Walk forward until I tell you to.. there! Stop! Now turn to your right a little more — facing your husband.'
Arthur Fane moistened his lips.
'Stand back a few steps… that's it.
Sharpless jerked back.
'Victoria Fane, you hate the man sitting in front of you. He has done something which you consider unforgivable. You hate him from the bottom of your heart. You wish him dead.'
Vicky did not move.
'You hold a loaded revolver. From where you stand, it would be easy to shoot him through the heart. Look.'
From his inside pocket Rich took out a pencil of soft, dark, rather smeary lead. He went up to Arthur, and, before the latter could protest, he drew a cross on the left breast of his host's soft shirt.
'There is his heart. Higher up than you thought it was. You wish him dead. I order you to kill him. I will count three, and then you will fire. One.. two…'
If the hammer fell on even a dud cartridge, it would make a sharp click. Every ear strained for that click.
Vicky's finger, shaking like the whole movement of her arm and shoulder and body, did not tighten. It
