Chapter 4

“I found him,” he recited, as though testing the story he would tell later, “prowling through my house at night. Mistaking him for a burglar, I killed him. The kitchen window will be found open, with the lock broken, showing how he gained an entrance. Why not?” he demanded.

“Because,” protested Pearsall, in terror, “the man outside will tell----”

Ford shouted in genuine relief.

“Exactly!” he cried. “The man outside, who is not down an area with a knife in him, but who at this moment is bringing the police--he will tell!”

As though he had not been interrupted, Prothero continued thoughtfully:

“What they may say he expected to find here, I can explain away later. The point is that I found a strange man, hatless, dishevelled, prowling in my house. I called on him to halt; he ran, I fired, and unfortunately killed him. An Englishman's home is his castle; an English jury----”

“An English jury,” said Ford briskly, “is the last thing you want to meet---- It isn't a Chicago jury.”

The Jew flung back his head as though Ford had struck him in the face.

“Ah!” he purred, “you know that, too, do you?” The purr increased to a snarl. “You know too much!”

For Pearsall, his tone seemed to bear an alarming meaning. He sprang toward Prothero, and laid both hands upon his disengaged arm.

“For God's sake,” he pleaded, “come away! He can't hurt you--not alive; but dead, he'll hang you--hang us both. We must go, now, this moment.” He dragged impotently at the left arm of the giant. “Come!” he begged.

Whether moved by Pearsall's words or by some thought of his own, Prothero nodded in assent. He addressed himself to Ford.

“I don't know what to do with you,” he said, “so I will consult with my friend outside this door. While we talk, we will lock you in. We can hear any move you make. If you raise the window or call I will open the door and kill you--you and that woman!”

With a quick gesture, he swung to the door, and the spring lock snapped. An instant later the bolts were noisily driven home.

When the second bolt shot into place, Ford turned and looked at Miss Dale.

“This is a hell of a note!” he said

III

Outside the locked door the voices of the two men rose in fierce whispers. But Ford regarded them not at all. With the swiftness of a squirrel caught in a cage, he darted on tiptoe from side to side searching the confines of his prison. He halted close to Miss Dale and pointed at the windows.

“Have you ever tried to loosen those bars?” he whispered.

The girl nodded and, in pantomime that spoke of failure, shrugged her shoulders.

“What did you see?” demanded Ford hopefully.

The girl destroyed his hope with a shake of her head and a swift smile.

“Scissors,” she said; “but they found them and took them away.” Ford pointed at the open grate.

“Where's the poker?” he demanded.

“They took that, too. I bent it trying to pry the bars. So they knew.”

The man gave her a quick, pleased glance, then turned his eyes to the door that led into the room that looked upon the street.

“Is that door locked?”

“No,” the girl told him. “But the door from it into the hall is fastened, like the other, with a spring lock and two bolts.”

Ford cautiously opened the door into the room adjoining, and, except for a bed and wash-stand, found it empty. On tiptoe he ran to the windows. Sowell Street was deserted. He returned to Miss Dale, again closing the door between the two rooms.

“The nurse,” Miss Dale whispered, “when she is on duty, leaves that door open so that she can watch me; when she goes downstairs, she locks and bolts the door from that room to the hall. It's locked now.”

“What's the nurse like?”

The girl gave a shudder that seemed to Ford sufficiently descriptive. Her lips tightened in a hard, straight line.

“She's not human,” she said. “I begged her to help me, appealed to her in every way; then I tried a dozen times to get past her to the stairs.”

“Well?”

The girl frowned, and with a gesture signified her surroundings.

“I'm still here,” she said.

She bent suddenly forward and, with her hand on his shoulder, turned the man so that he faced the cot.

“The mattress on that bed,” she whispered, “rests on two iron rods. They are loose and can be lifted. I planned to smash the lock, but the noise would have brought Prothero. But you could defend yourself with one of them.”

Ford had already run to the cot and dropped to his knees. He found the mattress supported on strips of iron resting loosely in sockets at the head and foot. He raised the one nearer him, and then, after a moment of hesitation, let it drop into place.

“That's fine!” he whispered. “Good as a crowbar.'” He shook his head in sudden indecision. “But I don't just know how to use it. His automatic could shoot six times before I could swing that thing on him once. And if I have it in my hands when he opens the door, he'll shoot, and he may hit you. But if I leave it where it is, he won't know I know it's there, and it may come in very handy later.”

In complete disapproval the girl shook her head. Her eyes filled with concern. “You must not fight him,” she ordered. “I mean, not for me. You don't know the danger. The man's not sane. He won't give you a chance. He's mad. You have no right to risk your life for a stranger. I'll not permit it----”

Ford held up his hand for silence. With a jerk of his head he signified the door. “They've stopped talking,” he whispered.

Straining to hear, the two leaned forward, but from the hall there came no sound. The girl raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“Have they gone?” she breathed.

“If I knew that,” protested Ford, “we wouldn't be here!”

In answer to his doubt a smart rap, as though from the butt of a revolver, fell upon the door. The voice of Prothero spoke sharply:

“You, who call yourself Grant!” he shouted.

Before answering, Ford drew Miss Dale and himself away from the line of the door, and so placed the girl with her back to the wall that if the door opened she would be behind it. “Yes,” he answered.

“Pearsall and I,” called Prothero, “have decided how to dispose of you--of both of you. He has gone below to make preparations. I am on guard. If you try to break out or call for help, I'll shoot you as I warned you!”

“And I warn you,” shouted Ford, “if this lady and I do not instantly leave this house, or if any harm comes to her, you will hang for it!” Prothero laughed jeeringly.

“Who will hang me?” he mocked.

“My friends,” retorted Ford. “They know I am in this house. They know WHY I am here. Unless they see Miss Dale and myself walk out of it in safety, they will never let you leave it. Don't be a fool, Prothero!” he shouted. “You know I am telling the truth. You know your only chance for mercy is to open that door and let us go free.”

For over a minute Ford waited, but from the hall there was no answer.

After another minute of silence, Ford turned and gazed inquiringly at Miss Dale.

“Prothero!” he called.

Again for a full minute he waited and again called, and then, as there still was no reply, he struck the door sharply with his knuckles. On the instant the voice of the Jew rang forth in an angry bellow.

“Keep away from that door!” he commanded.

Ford turned to Miss Dale and bent his head close to hers.

“Now, why the devil didn't he answer?” he whispered. “Was it because he wasn't there; or is he planning to steal away and wants us to think that even if he does not answer, he's still outside?” The girl nodded eagerly.

“This is it,” she whispered. “My uncle is a coward or rather he is very wise, and has left the house. And Prothero means to follow, but he wants us to think he's still on guard. If we only KNEW!” she exclaimed.

As though in answer to her thought, the voice of Prothero called to them.

“Don't speak to me again,” he warned. “If you do, I'll not answer, or I'll shoot!”

Flattened against the wall, close to the hinges of the door, Ford replied flippantly and defiantly:

“That makes conversation difficult, doesn't it?” he called.

There was a bursting report, and a bullet splintered the panel of the door, flattened itself against the fireplace, and fell tinkling into the grate.

“I hope I hit you!” roared the Jew.

Ford pressed his lips tightly together. Whatever happy retort may have risen to them was forever lost. For an exchange of repartee, the moment did not seem propitious.

“Perhaps now,” jeered Prothero, “you'll believe I'm in earnest!”

Ford still resisted any temptation to reply. He grinned apologetically at the girl and shrugged his shoulders. Her face was white, but it was white from excitement, not from fear.

“What did I tell you?” she whispered. “He IS mad--quite mad!”

Ford glanced at the bullet-hole in the panel of the door. It was on a line with his heart. He looked at Miss Dale; her shoulder was on a level with his own, and her eyes were following his.

“In case he does that again,” said Ford, “we would be more comfortable sitting down.”

With their shoulders against the wall, the two young people sank to the floor. The position seemed to appeal to them as humorous, and, when their eyes met, they smiled.

“To a spectator,” whispered Ford encouragingly, “we MIGHT appear to be getting the worst of this. But, as a matter of fact, every minute Cuthbert does not come means that the next minute may bring him.”

“You don't believe he was hurt?” asked the girl.

“No,” said Ford. “I believe Prothero found him, and I believe there may have been a fight. But you heard what Pearsall said: 'The man outside will tell.' If Cuthbert's in a position to tell, he is not down an area with a knife in him.”

He was interrupted by a faint report from the lowest floor, as though the door to the street had been sharply slammed. Miss Dale showed that she also had heard it.

“My uncle,” she said, “making his escape!”

“It may be,” Ford answered.

The report did not suggest to him the slamming of a door, but he saw no reason for saying so to the girl.

With his fingers locked across his knees, Ford was leaning forward, his eyes frowning, his lips tightly shut. At his side the girl regarded him covertly. His broad shoulders, almost touching hers, his strong jaw projecting aggressively, and the alert, observant eyes gave her confidence. For three weeks she had been making a fight single-handed. But she was now willing to cease struggling and relax. Quite happily she placed herself and her safety in the keeping of a stranger. Half to herself, half to the man, she murmured: “It is like 'The Sieur de Maletroit's Door.”'

Without looking at her, Ford shook his head and smiled.

“No such luck,” he corrected grimly. “That young man was given a choice. The moment he was willing to marry the girl he could have walked out of the room free. I do not recall Prothero's saying I can escape death by any such charming alternative.” The girl interrupted quickly.

“No,” she said; “you are not at all like that young man. He stumbled in by chance. You came on purpose to help me. It was fine, unselfish.”

“It was not,” returned Ford. “My motive was absolutely selfish. It was not to help you I came, but to be able to tell about it later. It is my business to do that. And before I saw you, it was all in the day's work. But after I saw you it was no longer a part of the day's work; it became a matter of a life time.”

The girl at his side laughed softly and lightly. “A lifetime is not long,” she said, “when you are locked in a room and a madman is shooting at you. It may last only an hour.”

“Whether it lasts an hour or many years,” said Ford, “it can mean to me now only one thing----” He turned quickly and looked in her face boldly and steadily: “You,” he said.

The girl did not avoid his eyes, but returned his glance with one as steady as his own. “You are an amusing person,” she said. “Do you feel it is necessary to keep up my courage with pretty speeches?”

“I made no pretty speech,” said Ford. “I proclaimed a fact. You are the most charming person that ever came into my life, and whether Prothero shoots us up, or whether we live to get back to God's country, you will never leave it.”

The girl pretended to consider his speech critically. “It would be almost a compliment,” she said, “if it were intelligent, but when you know nothing of me--it is merely impertinent.”

“I know this much of you,” returned Ford, calmly; “I know you are fine and generous, for your first speech to me, in spite of your own danger, was for my safety. I know you are brave, for I see you now facing death without dismay.”

He was again suddenly halted by, two sharp reports. They came from the room directly below them. It was no longer possible to pretend to misinterpret their significance.

“Prothero!” exclaimed Ford, “and his pistol!”

They waited breathlessly for what might follow: an outcry, the sound of a body falling, a third pistol-shot. But throughout the house there was silence.

“If you really think we are in such danger,” declared Miss Dale, “we are wasting time!”

“We are NOT wasting time,” protested Ford; “we are really gaining time, for each minute Cuthbert and the police are drawing nearer, and to move about only invites a bullet. And, what is of more importance,” he went on quickly, as though to turn her mind from the mysterious pistol-shots, “should we get out of this alive, I shall already have said what under ordinary conditions I might not have found the courage to tell you in many months.” He waited as though hopeful of a reply, but Miss Dale remained silent. “They say,” continued Ford, “when a man is drowning his whole life passes in review. We are drowning, and yet I find I can see into the past no further than the last half-hour. I find life began only then, when I looked through the bars of that window and found YOU!”

With the palm of her hand the girl struck the floor sharply. “This is neither the time,” she exclaimed, “nor the place to----”

“I did not choose the place,” Ford pointed out. “It was forced upon me with a gun. But the TIME is excellent. At such a time one speaks only what is true.”

“You certainly have a strange sense of humor,” she said, “but when you are risking your life to help me, how can I be angry?”

“Of course you can't,” Ford agreed heartily; “you could not be so conventional.”

“But I AM conventional!” protested Miss Dale. “And I am not USED to having young men tell me they have 'come into my life to stay'--certainly not young men who come into my life by way of a trap-door, and without an introduction, without a name, without even a hat! It's absurd! It's not real! It's a nightmare!”

“The whole situation is absurd!” Ford declared. “Here we are in the heart of London, surrounded by telephones, taxicabs, police--at least, hope we are surrounded by police and yet we are crawling around the floor on our hands and knees dodging bullets. I wish it were a nightmare. But, as it's not”--he rose to his feet--“I think I'll try----”

He was interrupted by a sharp blow upon the door and the voice of Prothero.

“You, navy officer!” he panted. “Come to the door! Stand close to it so that I needn't shout. Come, quick!”

Ford made no answer. Motioning to Miss Dale to remain where she was, he ran noiselessly to the bed, and from beneath the mattress lifted one of the iron bars upon which it rested. Grasping it at one end, he swung the bar swiftly as a man tests the weight of a baseball bat. As a weapon it seemed to satisfy him, for he smiled. Then once more he placed himself with his back to the wall. “Do you hear me?” roared Prothero.

“I hear you!” returned Ford. “If you want to talk to me, open the door and come inside.”

“Listen to me,” called Prothero. “If I open the door you may act the fool, and I will have to shoot you, and I have made up my mind to let you live. You will soon have this house to yourselves. In a few moments I will leave it, but where I am going I'll need money, and I want the bank-notes in that blue envelope.” Ford swung the iron club in short half-circles.

“Come in and get them!” he called.

“Don't trifle with me!” roared the Jew, “I may change my mind. Shove the money through the crack under the door.”

“And get shot!” returned Ford. “Not bit like it!”

“If, in one minute,” shouted Prothero, “I don't see the money coming through that crack, I'll begin shooting through this door, and neither of you will live!”

Resting the bar in the crook of his elbow, Ford snatched the bank-notes from the envelope, and, sticking them in his pocket, placed the empty envelope on the floor. Still keeping out of range, and using his iron bar as a croupier uses his rake, he pushed the envelope across the carpet and under the door. When half of it had disappeared from the other side of the door, it was snatched from view.

An instant later there was a scream of anger and on a line where Ford would have been, had he knelt to shove the envelope under the door, three bullets splintered through the panel.

At the same moment the girl caught him by the wrist. Unheeding the attack upon the door, her eyes were fixed upon the windows. With her free hand she pointed at the one at which Ford had first appeared. The blind was still raised a few inches, and they saw that the night was lit with a strange and brilliant radiance. The storm had passed, and from all the houses that backed upon the one in which they were prisoners lights blazed from every window, and in each were crowded many people, and upon the roof-tops in silhouette from the glare of the street lamps below, and in the yards and clinging to the walls that separated them, were hundreds of other dark, shadowy groups changing and swaying. And from them rose the confused, inarticulate, terrifying murmur of a mob. It was as though they were on a race-track at night facing a great grandstand peopled with an army of ghosts. With the girl at his side, Ford sprang to the window and threw up the blind, and as they clung to the bars, peering into the night, the light in the room fell full upon them. And in an instant from the windows opposite, from the yards below, and from the house-tops came a savage, exultant yell of welcome, a confusion of cries' orders, entreaties, a great roar of warning. At the sound, Ford could feel the girl at his side tremble.

“What does it mean?” she cried.

“Cuthbert has raised the neighborhood!” shouted Ford jubilantly. “Or else”--he cried in sudden enlightenment--“those shots we heard.”

The girl stopped him with a low cry of fear. She thrust her arms between the bars and pointed. In the yard below them was the sloping roof of the kitchen. It stretched from the house to the wall of the back yard. Above the wall from the yard beyond rose a ladder, and, face down upon the roof, awry and sprawling, were the motionless forms of two men. Their shining capes and heavy helmets proclaimed their calling.

“The police!” exclaimed Ford. “And the shots we thought were for those in the house were for THEM! This is what has happened,” he whispered eagerly: “Prothero attacked Cuthbert. Cuthbert gets away and goes to the police. He tells them you are here a prisoner, that I am here probably a prisoner, and of the attack upon himself. The police try to make an entrance from the street--that was the first shot we heard--and are driven back; then they try to creep in from the yard, and those poor devils were killed.”

As he spoke a sudden silence had fallen, a silence as startling as had been the shout of warning. Some fresh attack upon the house which the prisoners could not see, but which must be visible to those in the houses opposite was going forward.

“Perhaps they are on the roof,”' whispered Ford joyfully. “They'll be through the trap in a minute, and you'll be free!”

“No!” said the girl.

She also spoke in a whisper, as though she feared Prothero might hear her. And with her hand she again pointed. Cautiously above the top of the ladder appeared the head and shoulders of a man. He wore a policeman's helmet, but, warned by the fate of his comrades, he came armed. Balancing himself with his left hand on the rung of the ladder, he raised the other and pointed a revolver. It was apparently at the two prisoners, and Miss Dale sprang to one side.

“Standstill!” commanded Ford. “He knows who YOU are! You heard that yell when they saw you? They know you are the prisoner, and they are glad you're still alive. That officer is aiming at the window BELOW us. He's after the men who murdered his mates.”

From the window directly beneath them came the crash of a rifle, and from the top of the ladder the revolver of the police officer blazed in the darkness. Again the rifle crashed, and the man on the ladder jerked his hands above his head and pitched backward. Ford looked into the face of the girl and found her eyes filled with horror.

“Where is my uncle, Pearsall?” she faltered. “He has two rifles--for shooting in Scotland. Was that a rifle that----” Her lips refused to finish the question.

“It was a rifle,” Ford stammered, “but probably Prothero----”

Even as he spoke the voice of the Jew rose in a shriek from the floor below them, but not from the window below them. The sound was from the front room opening on Sowell Street. In the awed silence that had suddenly fallen his shrieks carried sharply. They were more like the snarls and ravings of an animal than the outcries of a man.

“Take THAT!” he shouted, with a flood of oaths, “and THAT, and THAT!”

Each word was punctuated by the report of his automatic, and to the amazement of Ford, was instantly answered from Sowell Street by a scattered volley of rifle and pistol shots.

“This isn't a fight,” he cried, “it's a battle!”

With Miss Dale at his side, he ran into the front room, and, raising the blind, appeared at the window. And instantly, as at the other end of the house, there was, at sight of the woman's figure, a tumult of cries, a shout of warning, and a great roar of welcome. From beneath them a man ran into the deserted street, and in the glare of the gas-lamp Ford saw his white, upturned face. He was without a hat and his head was circled by a bandage. But Ford recognized Cuthbert. “That's Ford!” he cried, pointing. “And the girl's with him!” He turned to a group of men crouching in the doorway of the next house to the one in which Ford was imprisoned. “The girl's alive!” he shouted.

“The girl's alive!” The words were caught up and flung from window to window, from house-top to house-top, with savage, jubilant cheers. Ford pushed Miss Dale forward.

“Let them see you,” he said, “and you will never see a stranger sight.”

Below them, Sowell Street, glistening with rain and snow, lay empty, but at either end of it, held back by an army of police, were black masses of men, and beyond them more men packed upon the tops of taxicabs and hansoms, stretching as far as the street-lamps showed, and on the roofs shadowy forms crept cautiously from chimney to chimney; and in the windows of darkened rooms opposite, from behind barricades of mattresses and upturned tables, rifles appeared stealthily, to be lost in a sudden flash of flame. And with these flashes were others that came from windows and roofs with the report of a bursting bomb, and that, on the instant, turned night into day, and then left the darkness more dark.

Ford gave a cry of delight.

“They're taking flash-light photographs,” he cried jubilantly. “Well done, you Pressmen!” The instinct of the reporter became compelling. “If they're alive to develop those photographs to-night,” he exclaimed eagerly, “Cuthbert will send them by special messenger, in time to catch the MAURETANIA and the REPUBLIC will have them by Sunday. I mayn't be alive to see them,” he added regretfully, “but what a feature for the Sunday supplement!”