The strange countess
Even the prospect of a _tête-à-tête_ meal with a scion of the
nobility was not sufficient to compensate for this news.
“But where is she, Mr. Dorn?”
“She’s somewhere. I don’t think she’ll come to any harm for a day or
two.”
She looked at him quietly.
“You don’t think that.”
“Yes, I do,” he protested.
She did not take her eyes from him.
“You look nearly dead,” she said. “You’re pretty fond of her, aren’t
you?”
He was startled by the question.
“Fond of Lois?” The question seemed in the nature of a revelation.
“Fond of her--why--I suppose I am.”
At that moment Michael Dorn realised that he had something more than a
professional interest in the girl he sought, and he was shocked at the
discovery.
He dropped Lizzy Smith in Charlotte Street, and, declining her
invitation to come in, drove home, and, leaving his car in the
courtyard of Hiles Mansions, he dragged himself wearily up to his
room. He was sleeping on the top of his bed when the silent Wills came
in with a telegram in his hand, and, struggling up, he tore open the
cover and read the message. It had been handed in at Paris at eight
o’clock and ran:
Will you please inform me name of District Commissioner, Karrili,
during period you were in Punjab.
It was signed “Chesney Praye, Grand Hotel.”
“An ‘I’m here’ enquiry,” said Michael, handing the telegram to Wills,
“the idea being to establish the fact that he is in Paris at this
moment. Get on the ’phone, Wills, to all the private hire aerodromes
within a radius of a hundred miles of London, find out if anybody
hired a private machine in the early hours of the morning to take him
to Paris. Report to me later.”
Wills nodded and stole forth silently.
“To try that stuff on me!” said Michael wrathfully, as the door closed
upon his man.
Chapter Twenty-four
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Lois Reddle woke from a
heavy sleep, feeling ravenously hungry. She got off the bed, and,
putting on her shoes, walked to the window. The prospect was a dreary
one. She saw the farmyard into which she had driven that morning, and
recognised the slatternly woman who was feeding the chickens as the
janitress who had opened the door. Beyond the discoloured wall was the
slope of a treeless down, and, by getting close to the pane and
looking sideways, she could see no more than a further fold of the
hills, surmounted by a black copse.
She felt refreshed when she had bathed her face and hands, but the
pangs of hunger had grown more poignant, and she went to the door and
turned the handle. It did not budge; the door was locked. The window
sash, she found, only opened a few inches, but it was sufficient to
call to the woman in the yard, and presently she attracted her
attention, for she waved her hand impatiently and went on feeding the
chickens. Then, after a few minutes, she went out of the girl’s line
of vision. It was some time before her heavy tread sounded on the
stairs, and obviously the locked door was no accident, for, when the
woman came in carrying a tray, the key was hanging from a chain
fastened to her waist.
“Please do not lock the door again,” said Lois, as she surveyed the
very plain fare with some appreciation.
“You get on with your eating and never mind about the door,” was the
unexpected reply.
Lois was left in no doubt as to the woman’s hostility and wisely did
not continue the argument. Then, to her amazement, as the woman went
out of the room she turned the key again. Lois ran to the door and
hammered on the panels.
“Unlock this door,” she said, but there was no reply save the sound of
the dour attendant’s footsteps on the stairs, and the girl went slowly
back to her meal to confront a new problem.
The appetite of youth was not to be denied, and when she had finished
her meal some of her confidence and poise had returned. It was
impossible that they could be keeping her prisoner; she scoffed at the
idea. Possibly the locking of the door was the act of an over-zealous
custodian who was to keep her safe from--she shook her head. Not from
Michael Dorn. Whatever views the countess might have of him, however
unforgivable had been his behaviour, he was not vindictive, nor would
he pursue her in any spirit of revenge. That was the greatest
impossibility of all.
She tried the door again; it was undoubtedly locked. And then, in a
spirit of self-preservation, she attempted to open the window, and
found that two slats of wood had been so screwed as to make it
impossible for the sash to rise or fall more than a few inches. The
other window had been similarly dealt with. She was examining this
when she saw the doctor in the yard. He wore his rusty frock coat, but
he was collarless, and on his head was an old golf cap.
Walking with unsteady steps to the gate through which she had come,
and which was open, with some difficulty he closed it. She needed no
special knowledge of human weakness to see that he had been drinking
more than was good for him, for his gait was unsteady, and when,
turning back to the house, he saw her, and yelled a greeting, it was
interrupted by a hiccough.
“Had a good sleep, young friend?” he shouted. “Has that old hag
brought your lunch?”
“Doctor”--she spoke through the slit of the sash--“can’t I come down?
She has locked me in.”
“Locked you in?” The statement seemed to afford him some amusement,
for he rocked with laughter. “Well, well, fancy locking you in! She
must be afraid of you, my dear. Don’t you worry, you’re all right.
I’ll look after you. You’ve heard no voices, have you? Seen nobody
following you around, eh? You’ll be all right in a day or two.”
His words filled her with apprehension. Once before, at the luncheon
where she had met him, he had spoken about mysterious voices and
people following her. Did he think she was mad? She went cold at the
thought. Going to the door, she waited for him to come up the stairs,
but there was no sound from below, only a soft patter of feet, and
presently something snuffled under the door and there was a low growl.
The woman’s harsh voice called from the passage.
“Bati, Bati, _hitherao_! Come down, you black _soor_!”
She heard the animal running down the stairs, there was the sound of a
smack and a sharp yelp. Later, she saw the dogs--there were two of
them--in the yard. Great black beasts, bigger than Alsatians, but
lacking their fineness. They were prowling about, nosing into stable
refuse. One of them saw her, growled and showed his fangs, the
bristles stiff, and she hastily drew out of sight. She knocked again
on the door, stamped on the floor, but attracted no attention, and
though she heard the doctor’s voice and called to him he ignored her.
Her situation was a dangerous one, and she began to understand dimly
the reason for Dorn’s drastic action.
Where she was she could not guess. So much of the country as she could
see had no meaning for her; and, except that her window faced
northward, she was unable to locate her position.
The woman brought her up some more tea in the afternoon--vile stuff
beside which Lizzy Smith’s concoctions were veritable nectar.
“I insist that you leave this door open,” said the girl.
“They’d tear you to pieces if I did,” said the woman. “There is no
holding them with strangers. Hark at Bati now!”
There was a snuffling and growling outside the door.
“Go away, you! _Juldi_!” she cried shrilly in her queer mixture of
English and Hindustani.
The girl faced her.
“I am not afraid of dogs,” said Lois steadily, and walked to the door.
Before she was half-way the woman had overtaken her, and, catching her
by the arm, had swung her round.
“You’ll stay where you are, and do as you’re told, or it will be worse
for you,” she said threateningly.
“Where is the doctor? I wish to see him.”
“You can’t see any doctor. He’s gone down to the village to get a
drink.”
She kicked away the dogs that strove to get through the half-open
door, closed and locked it, and for half an hour Lois sat before her
untasted meal, trying to think. The light was fading in the sky when
there came the second dramatic interruption of that day.
Lois was standing by the window, looking into the dreary yard and
thinking of Michael Dorn. He had certainly become a bright nucleus of
hope. Michael Dorn would not fail her; wherever she was, he would
follow. Why she should think this, she could not understand. Why he
should give his time and his thoughts to her protection, was a mystery
yet to be solved. But he was working for her--working for her now. It
was a comforting thought; she almost forgot her fears.
Then from the yard below came the screaming voice of the gaunt woman.
“I told you to wash those dishes, didn’t I? Never mind what you’re
doing; when I give you an order you carry it out, you old gaol-bird.”
“Why am I kept here?” Another voice spoke sweet and soft. Lois
trembled at the sound. “He told me that----”
“Never mind what he told you,” shrilled the other. “Wash those dishes,
and then you can scrub the floor; and if it is not done in half an
hour I’ll put you in the cellar with the rats or give you to the dogs,
and they’ll tear you to pieces! Hi, Bati! Mali!”
There was a harsh growl from the dogs and a clanking of chains.
“I refuse”--again the gentle voice--“I refuse!”
_Crack!_
“Refuse that! Give me any trouble and I’ll whip you till you bleed.
Ah, you would, would you?”
There was the sound of a struggle and the horrified girl, craning her
neck, saw a frail woman stumble and fall to the ground, saw the cruel
whip rise and fall----
“Stop!” cried Lois hoarsely, and at that instant, as the old hag
stooped over the stricken woman and jerked her out of view, the knees
of Lois Reddle gave beneath her and she fell to the floor in a swoon.
Chapter Twenty-five
Lois came to consciousness almost at once, as she thought, though
she had been lying on the floor for half an hour before she moved,
and, sick and shaking, dragged herself with difficulty to the bed.
She felt ill and shaken and sat with her hands before her eyes trying
to shut out that hideous scene. The raised whip----
She lay down on the bed, her face in the crook of her arm, trying to
reconstruct from the confusion of her mind a sane and logical
explanation, and always her thoughts flew back to Michael Dorn, with
his saturnine face and his soul-searching eyes. Why he should weave in
and out of her troubled thoughts, she could not fathom, except that
she came back to that sure foundation of faith. Who was this other
prisoner? What had the countess to do with this experience of hers?
Was it true, as Michael Dorn had hinted, that the falling balcony and
the motor-car incident were not accidents, but deliberate attempts to
kill her?
When the woman brought her supper, Lois was outwardly calm,
recognising the futility of questioning her. When she came up to clear
away, she brought a small oil lamp and lit it. She pulled down the two
ragged blinds before she left, and at the door paused for her
good-night message.
“If you want anything, stamp on the floor,” she said. “If you take my
tip you won’t send for the doctor, because he’s raving drunk; and
don’t take any notice of that woman downstairs, she’s crazy!”
It was not a very cheering farewell. One thing was certain, she was
free from interruption for the rest of the night; and she decided to
put into operation the plan she had formed.
She had found in her little handbag a small nail file. The slats that
prevented the windows opening had been screwed into the sash grooves,
and Lois guessed that by breaking off the point of the file she would
be able to improvise a screwdriver. The snapping of the file was an
easy matter, but when she came to fit the jagged end in the screws,