The Girl Philippa
nothing; I'm for _myself_! The Bosches were the kinder to me, and they
get what I don't need, _voila tout_!"
There came a long pause, and then Wildresse's heavy tones once more:
"I'll give you your chance. Yes, in spite of your treachery and your
ingratitude, I'll give you your chance!
"You have a brain--such as it is. It's a woman's brain, of course, but
it can figure out on which side the bread is buttered.
"Listen: I ought to twist your neck. You've tried to put mine into the
_lunette_. You could have sent me up against a dead wall if you had
given that paper you burned to the _flics_. No, you didn't. You
enjoyed a crisis of nerves and you burned it. I _know_ you burned it,
because I admit that you tell the truth.
"Bon! Now, therefore, I do not instantly twist your neck. No! On the
contrary, I reason with you. I do not turn you over to the _sergots_.
I _could_! Why? Voyons, let us be reasonable! I was not hatched
yesterday. No! Do you suppose I have trusted you all these years
without having taken any little precautions? _Tiens_, you are beginning
to look at me, eh?
"Well, then, listen: if in future you have any curiosity concerning
_lunettes_ and dead walls, let me inform you that you are qualified to
embellish either.
"_Tiens_! You seem startled. It never occurred to you to ask why I
have had certain papers written out by you, or why I have had you affix
your pretty signature to so many little documents which you could not
read because the ink was invisible.
"No. You have never thought about such matters, have you? But, all the
same, I have all I require to make you sneeze into the basket, or to
play blindman's buff between a dead wall and a squad of execution.
"And _now_!--Now that you know enough to hold your tongue, will you hold
it in future and be honest and loyal to the hand that picked you out of
the gutter and that has fed you ever since?"
There was a silence.
"_Will_ you?" he repeated.
"_No!_"
A bull-like roar burst from Wildresse:
"I'll twist your neck for you, and I'll do it now!" he bellowed. "I'll
snap that white neck of yours----"
*CHAPTER XVIII*
The next instant Warner struck the door such a blow with his doubled
fist that the jarring sound silenced the roar of rage that had burst
from Wildresse at Philippa's answer, and checked the heavy scuffle of
his great feet, too.
Already Warner had drawn back, pistol lifted, gathered together to throw
his full weight against the door and hold it the moment it was opened
from inside.
The sudden stillness which followed his blow lasted but a few seconds;
heavy steps approached the door, halted; approached irresolutely,
stopped short. Then ensued another period of quiet; and Warner,
listening, could hear the breathing of Wildresse on the other side of
the door.
Minute after minute passed; Wildresse, still as a tiger, never stirred,
and even his suppressed breathing became inaudible after a while.
Warner, pistol in hand, ready to throw himself against the door the
instant it moved on the crack, bent over and placed his ear close
against the paneling. After a while he detected the sound of footsteps
cautiously retreating, and realized that Wildresse did not intend to
open the door.
He knocked again loudly: the steps continued to recede; somewhere
another door was unbolted and opened; and the stealthy, retreating
footsteps continued on beyond earshot.
Again he knocked heavily with the butt of his pistol; waited, listened,
then drew back and fairly hurled himself against the door. It scarcely
even creaked; he might as well have attempted to push over the retaining
wall of the corridor itself.
"Philippa!" he called. "Philippa!"
A low cry answered him; he heard her stir suddenly.
But as he grasped the door knob and shook it in his excitement and
impatience, over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a gross, hairless
face slyly peering around the further corner of the corridor. It
disappeared immediately.
"Open the door, Philippa!" he cried. "Open quick!"
"Warner, _mon ami_, I can't! He took the key----" she called through to
him. "Oh, Warner! What am I to do?"
"All right! Wait there!" He turned and ran for the further end of the
corridor, sprang around the corner without hesitating, sped forward, now
fiercely intent on the destruction of Wildresse. But the Patron had
fled. He ran forward, turned another corner in the dim light of locked
shutters, but found no trace of the bulky quarry he hunted, heard
nothing, halted, breathing fast and hard, trying to establish his
bearings.
A stair well plunged downward into shadowy depths just ahead; he stole
forward and looked over; carpeted steps vanished into the darkness
below.
Doors, all locked, faced him everywhere; he ran along them, trying each
as he passed; came to an angle of solid wall, stepped around it, pistol
extended; and it was a miracle he was not startled into pulling trigger
when a door was torn open in his very face, and a figure, dark against
the fiery sunset framed by a window, sprang forward.
"Warner, _mon ami_! _Me voici_!" she cried joyously, flinging both arms
around his neck; but he stood white and trembling with the nearness of
her destruction at his hands, holding the shaking pistol wide from her
body and unable to utter a word.
And as he stood there, one arm around her thin body, somewhere below and
behind him a door burst open and there came a muffled rush of feet up
the stairway from the darkness below.
He pushed her violently away from him, but before he could turn and
spring to the stairhead, three men leaped into the passage, their
weapons spitting red flashes through the dusky corridor; and he jumped
backward dragging Philippa with him into the room behind them, slammed
the door, and bolted, chained, and locked it.
Outside, Asticot, Squelette, and Hoffman stood close to the door and
poured bullets through it at close range. The stream of lead tore the
papered plaster wall, opposite to tatters; but the door was as massive
as the one he had tried to force with his shoulder; two great bars of
metal bolted it, a heavy chain further secured it, and the key remained
in the lock.
But steel-jacketed bullets still pierced the wood, stripping splinters
from the inside and mangling the opposite wall until the gay wall paper
hung in strips, and the whole room swam in a haze of drifting white
dust.
Edging along, his body flattened against the north wall of the empty
room, and drawing Philippa after him, he cautiously approached the door
which he had tried to force; and heard Wildresse whispering to somebody
outside. No wonder he had not been able to force it; the bolts and
chains that held it were exactly like those which secured the other
door.
He placed his lips close to Philippa's ear:
"Where are we?" he breathed; and bent his head to the child's bruised
mouth, which was still swollen and cut from the blow dealt her by
Wildresse that morning in the car.
"We are in the Patron's private office, where he used to lock himself
in," she whispered. "They've taken out the desk and chairs. His
bedroom is next; mine is the next beyond that."
He looked anxiously toward the window and saw tree tops and glimpses of
rolling country sparkling in the lilac-tinted haze of approaching
twilight.
"Where does that window face?" he whispered, softly.
"On the garden and river."
"How far a drop is it?"
"Too far, _mon ami_. The stone terrace is below."
"Is it thirty feet?"
"I don't know. The roof and chimneys are above us. We are in the top
story of the house."
"There are only two stories above the cellar, as I remember."
"Two, yes."
Still holding himself and her flat against the wall, he turned his head
cautiously from side to side, searching the empty room. There was
absolutely nothing there except bare floor and walls, and, in the
fireplace, a huge iron grate weighted with cannel coal.
Outside, from the two corridors the firing had ceased; but he could
distinguish the low vibration of heavy voices, carefully subdued, catch
the sound of stealthy movements on the carpeted floor close to both
doors. Lifting his pistol he fired through one door, wheeled, and fired
through the other. When the deafening racket in the room had ceased, he
bent toward her and whispered:
"Philippa, will you obey me?"
"Yes, mon ami."
"Flatten yourself closer against the wall and don't stir."
The girl spread out both arms, palms against the wall, and shrank closer
against it with her slim body.
Warner dropped cautiously to the floor, crept across it, dragging
himself by his hands, grasped the sill of the window, drew his head up
with infinite precaution, and looked out and finally down.
Below lay the flagstones and potted flowers of the garden terrace, not
more than twenty-five feet, he thought. Beyond these, the grass sloped
down to the Recollette, where rowboats still floated under the trees.
Reconnoitering, he could not discover a soul in sight, and, satisfied,
he crept back to where Philippa stood.
As he looked up at her, a faint smile touched the girl's bruised lips,
and her steady grey eyes seemed to say: "_Me voici, mon ami, toujours a
vos ordres!_"
"We must try to leave by the window," he whispered. "Both doors are
guarded. And this man means murder--for you, anyway----"
"Yes.... It does not matter much now.... Since I have seen you again."
"You dear child--you dear, brave little thing!"
"Oh, _mon ami_--if you truly are content with me----"
"Little comrade, you have been very wonderful and very true! Halkett
has recovered his papers.... Can you imagine how I felt when that
murderous brute struck you!"
"It was nothing--I don't care, now----" She looked at his face,
extended one finger along the wall, and touched his arm, trying to smile
with her disfigured lips.
He looked at her very intently for a moment, unsmiling. Then:
"Little comrade! Listen attentively."
"Yes, Warner."
"It's too far for us to drop. It is twenty feet, anyway, and probably
more. You would break your legs on the stones.... How many of your
clothes can you spare to make a rope?"
"My--_clothing_?"
"Yes. You see there is not a thing in this room, not even a shred of
carpet. I can spare my coat, waistcoat, shirt, tie, two handkerchiefs,
collar, belt--and both shoe laces. I have a heavy, sharp pocketknife
with a four-inch blade, which will cut cloth into strips. Help me all
you can, Philippa. We shall need every inch of cloth and linen we can
spare.... And I think we had better hurry about it, because I don't
know what they are planning to do outside those two doors."
She hesitated an instant, then:
"If you wish it.... Will you please turn your head?"
"Of course, you dear child! What can you spare?"
"I can spare my chemisette and underskirt and petticoat, and my velvet
hairband and my shoe laces.... And a handkerchief and my stockings....
It leaves me my red velvet bodice, which I can lace tightly, my red
velvet skirt, and my shoes.... Will it be enough to give you?"
"I hope so; we must try." He turned, stripped to his undershirt and
trousers, opened the long-bladed knife, and began to cut out strips from
the materials.
Presently she was ready to contribute to the projected rope, and
together they ventured to seat themselves noiselessly at the base of the
wall and begin serious work on the business before them.
The sound of linen or of cotton being ripped would certainly have set on
the alert the men outside and directed a murderously inclined gentleman
or two to the garden.
So they parted the stuffs with every precaution to avoid any noise,