Castle Craneycrow Part 36

"Yesterday I heard that a woman had been murdered in Brussels, a woman who came to warn me against the prince. Do you know who killed her?"

"Good G.o.d! Has she been killed? Ah, I knew it would come; he was obliged to get rid of her. I did not know of her death, but I leave you to guess who was responsible for it. G.o.d, he is a devil! You owe a great deal, Mademoiselle, to the clever men who stole you from him."

"Alas, I am beginning to know it, now that it is too late. And he was ill when I stole away to-night. I implore you, take me back to the castle!" she pleaded, her heart wrung by the anguish in her soul.

"So he is in the castle, eh? Just as I thought. I'd like to take you to him, especially as he is ill, but I must take care of number one.

When I dropped out of one villain's employment I went into business for myself. You see, there is about 100,000 francs reward for you, and there is the same for the bodies of the abductors. If I turn you over to your mother or her agents--not the prince, by the way--I earn the reward. If I can procure the arrest of your abductors I get double the amount. You see how unbusiness-like it would be if I were to let my sympathies get the better of me."

"But I will give you 100,000 francs if you will take me back to the castle," she cried, standing before him.

"Have you the money with you?"

"Of course I have not, but it shall be yours as soon as I can--"

"Pardon. You are worth nothing to me in that castle, and you will bring a fortune in Brussels."

In vain she pleaded with the stubborn detective, finally threatening him with dire punishment if he refused to accede to her demands.

Then he arose in sudden wrath, cursing her roundly and vowing she should not leave the room alive if she persisted in such threats. He told her that she was in a cave beneath the ruins of an old church, long the haunt of robbers, now the home of snakes and bats. Indeed, as he spoke a flittermouse scurried through the air within a foot of her ear.

"We rest here until to-morrow night, and then we start out to walk.

You cannot be seen in that dress, either. I have clothing here in this box for you to wear. My dear young lady, you must make believe that you are my younger brother for a day or two, at least."

A look of horror came into her face, succeeded by the deep red of insulted modesty, and then the white of indignation.

"I will die first, you wretch!" she exclaimed. In that moment she believed she could have killed the smiling rogue with her own hands.

"We shall see," he said, roughly. "Look at them; they are respectable in cut and they are clean." He drew the garments from the box, piece by piece, and held them before her flaming face. "I'm going out to take a look about the valley. You are quite safe here.

No one knows where you are, and the robbers have been dead for twenty years. One of them still has his skeleton in the room just off this one, but he is a harmless old fellow. In an hour I will return, and we will eat. It is now three o'clock, and the sun will soon be rising. To-night we venture forth as brothers, remember."

He pulled his cap down over his eyes, b.u.t.toned his coat about his throat, changed a revolver from one pocket to another, and deliberately stalked across the room to the narrow door. An instant later she heard the key rasp in the lock and she was alone.

"Oh, heaven, if Philip Quentin could see me now! If he could but hear my sobs and see my tears! How he would rejoice, how he would laugh, how he would pity me. This is your triumph, Philip Quentin, but you are not here to claim the wretched victory. Fool! Fool!

Fool!"

She had thrown herself face downward on the patch of carpet and was writhing in the agony of fear and regret. Suddenly there came to her ears the distant report of a firearm, the rush of feet and then something heavy crashed against the little door. She was on her feet in an instant, cowering in the far corner of the room, her face among the cobwebs. Panic seized her, and she screamed aloud in her terror. Outside the door there were sounds of a savage struggle, but they rapidly became indistinct, and finally pa.s.sed beyond hearing altogether. She ran to the door and pounded on it with hands that knew not the bruises they were acquiring, and she moaned in the fear that the rescuers, for such they surely must be, were leaving her behind.

"Phil! Phil!" she cried again and again. But there suddenly came to her a terrifying thought, and she fell back, cold and voiceless.

Ugo! What if he had at last run the treacherous Courant to earth?

What if the rescuer were he?

She slunk away from the door, the dampness of dread sending a chill to her heart. And when again the rush of footsteps brought a heavy body against the door, she had not the voice to cry out, so sure was she that Ugo Ravorelli was coming to her in that dismal hole.

Then the door gave way, and Philip Quentin came plunging into the room, hatless, coatless, his s.h.i.+rt in shreds. The mighty draft of air from the open door killed the sickly candle-flame, but not before they had seen each other. For the second time that night she lost consciousness.

At the bottom of a deep ravine lay the body of Courant. He had fled from before the two adversaries after a vain attempt to reenter the room below the church and had blindly dashed over the cliff. Turk, with more charity than Courant had shown not many hours before, climbed down the dangerous steep, and, in horror, touched his quivering hand. Then came the last gasp.

XXIX. DOROTHY'S SOLUTION

Quentin carried her forth into the night. When Turk came upon him in the darkness a few minutes later, he was wandering about the hilltop, the limp figure of the woman he loved in his arms, calling upon her to speak to him, to forgive him. The little man checked him just in time to prevent an ugly fall over a steep embankment.

"My G.o.d, she's dead, Turk!" he groaned, placing her tenderly on the gra.s.sy sward and supporting her head with his arm. "The wretch has killed her."

"He's paid for it, if he did. I guess it's nothin' but a faint er a fit. Does she have fits?" demanded Turk, earnestly. Quentin paid no heed to him, but feverishly began working with her, hope springing from Turk's surmise.

"Turk, if she dies, I swear to G.o.d I'll kill myself this night!"

cried he.

"You're talkin' crazy, sir. She's comin' around all right, all right. Hear that? Her eyes'll be busy in a minute, and she'll be askin' where she's at. Just keeled over, that's all. All women does that w'en they git's as glad as she wuz. They faint 'cause it's easier'n it is to tell how much obliged they are. I know 'em. They pa.s.s up hard jobs like that ontil they gits time t' look all pale an' interestin' an' tuckered-out, an' then they ain't no use sayin'

much obliged, 'cause th' man won't stand fer it a minute."

Turk was kneeling opposite Quentin and was scratching match after match, holding them above the pale face until they burnt his finger tips. When Dorothy at last opened her eyes she looked into the most terrifying face she had ever seen, and, as the lids closed again spasmodically, a moan came from her lips. Turk's bristled face was covered with blood that had dried hours ago, and he was a most uncanny object to look upon. "Darn me, she's askeert of my mug! I'll duck ontil you puts her nex'."

"Look up Dorothy! It is Phil! Don't be afraid, dearest; you are safe!" He knew that her eyes were open again, although it was too dark to see them.

"Is it you, Phil?" she whispered.

"Yes, yes!"

"Where is--where is he?" in terror.

"He cannot harm you now. He is gone."

"But I saw his face just now. Oh, you are not telling me the truth!"

"You saw Turk's face, dearest. What a time we had in finding you!

But you are safe now, thank G.o.d!"

She lay very still, striving to convince herself that she was awake and that she was really listening to Philip Quentin's voice, hoa.r.s.e and eager. Her hand went to his face, impulsively searching for the features her eyes could not see. Strong ringers seized it, and dry, burning lips kissed it again and again--lips parched with fever. The heart of the woman a.s.serted itself at once, and concern succeeded perplexity.

"Oh, Phil, you are ill--you should not be here!" she cried, in distress, and, before he could prevent she was on her feet, swaying dizzily.

"Then you are not hurt!" he cried. "Thank G.o.d for that!" His arm was about her waist, and a wave of security and contentment rolled through her being.

"Take me back to the castle, Phil," she said, simply. "You will never know how unhappy I have been, how I have blamed myself for running away as I did. But, oh, I thought he was a priest, and I wanted to prove that you could not keep me there."

"You do not have to stay there, Dorothy," he said, slowly.

"What do you mean?"

"I have been a fool, an ingrate, a brute, but I will atone if it is possible. In your note you said you would forgive the others. I don't ask pardon for myself, but I implore you to s.h.i.+eld them.

Perhaps it is too late; this detective has exposed us--"

"He swore to me that he had not, but he knows everything, and may carry the word to the authorities," she interrupted, in distress.