The Gloved Hand by Burton Egbert Stevenson (black books to read .TXT) 📕

as does it,'" agreed Godfrey. "Patience is a great thing. I only wish I had more of it."

"It would be a good thing," assented Simmonds, candidly; and then we fell silent, gazing out into the darkness.

"Surely," said Godfrey, at last, "it must be twelve o'clock."

Simmonds got out his watch and flashed upon it a ray from his electric torch.

"Yes," he said, "it's four minutes after."

I felt Godfrey's hand stiffen on my arm.

"Then there's something wrong," he whispered. "You remember, Lester, what happened the other time that light failed to appear. A man was murdered!"

The darkness into which I stared seemed suddenly to grow threatening and sinister, full of vague terrors. Even Simmonds grew uneasy, and I could feel his arm twitching.

Godfrey put his foot on the ladder, and began to descend. Simmonds and I followed him silently.

"I'm going over the wall," he said, when we were on the ground. "Something's wrong, and we've got to find out what it is."

"How will we get down?" asked Simmonds. "There's no ladder there."

Godfrey considered a moment.

"We can stand on the top of the wall," he said, at last, "and lift this ladder over. It won't be easy, but it can be done. Go ahead, Lester, and be careful of the glass."

I mounted the ladder, felt cautiously along the top of the wall and found a place where I could put my feet; Simmonds followed me, and then came Godfrey. His was the difficult part, to draw up the ladder and lower it again. As for me, it was all I could do to keep from falling. I felt absurdly as though I were standing on a tremulous tight-rope, high in the air; but Godfrey managed it somehow and started down.

And at that instant, there shrilled through the night the high, piercing note of a police-whistle. It rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell; and then came poignant silence. The sound stabbed through me. Without hesitation or thought of peril, I let myself go and plunged downward into the darkness.

CHAPTER XXIII DEADLY PERIL

There must be a providence which protects fools and madmen, for I landed in a heavy clump of shrubbery, and got to my feet with no injury more serious than some scratches on hands and face, which at the time I did not even feel. In a moment, I had found the path and was speeding toward the house. Ahead of me flitted a dark shadow which I knew to be Godfrey, and behind me came the pad-pad of heavy feet, which could only belong to Simmonds. And then, from the direction of the house, came the crash of broken glass.

I reached the lawn, crossed it, and traversed the short avenue which ended at the library door. Three men were there, and Simmonds came panting up an instant later. The detectives had their torches in their hands, and I saw that they had broken one of the glass panels of the doors, and that one of them had passed a hand through the opening and was fumbling about inside. There was a sharp click, and the hand came back.

"There you are," he said, threw the door open, and stood aside for his superior officer to lead the way.

"What's wrong?" Simmonds asked.

"I don't know—but the girl showed a light at her window."

"You heard nothing?"

"Not a sound."

Simmonds hesitated. No doubt the same thought occurred to him as to me; for the lawyer-Tartarin in me suggested that we scarcely had warrant to break our way into a sleeping house in the middle of the night.

But no such doubts seemed to disturb Godfrey. Without a word, he caught the torch from Simmonds's hand, and passed through the doorway. Simmonds followed, I went next, and the two other men came last, their torches also flaring. Three beams of light flashed about the library and showed it to be empty. One of them—Godfrey's—lingered on the high-backed chair, but this time it had no occupant.

Then Godfrey switched on the light, passed into the hall and switched on the light there. The hall, too, was empty, and only the ticking of a tall clock disturbed the silence. I was faltering and ready to turn back, but, to my amazement, Godfrey crossed the hall at a bound and sprang up the stair, three steps at a time.

"Make all the noise you can!" he shouted over his shoulder, and the clatter of our feet seemed enough to wake the dead.

The upper hall was also empty; and then my heart gave a sudden leap, for the circle of light from Godfrey's torch had come to rest upon a white-robed figure, which had stolen half-way down the stair from the upper story. It was the maid, holding her night-dress about her; and her face was as white as her gown.

Godfrey sprang to her side.

"What is it?" he asked. "What is wrong?"

"I heard a cry," gasped the girl. "Down here somewhere. And a scuffle in the dark. A woman's cry. It was choked off short."

Godfrey leaped down among us, and, as the light of a torch flashed across it, I saw that his face was livid.

"Who's got an extra gun?" he demanded, and one of the detectives pressed one into his hand. "Ready, now, men," he added, crossed the hall, threw open the outer door into Silva's room, and flung back the drapery beyond.

My heart was in my throat as I peered over Godfrey's shoulder at what lay within; and then a gasp of amazement from my companions mingled with my own.

For the crystal sphere was glowing softly, and seated cross-legged on the divan, his hands folded, his eyes fixed in meditation, was Silva.

We all stood for a moment staring at him, then Godfrey passed his hand dazedly before his eyes.

"You two men stay on guard here," he said. "One of you keep your torch on this fellow, and the other keep his torch on the floor. There's a cobra around somewhere."

An arc of light swept shakingly across the floor, as one of the men turned his torch toward it. But I saw no sign of Toto.

"Lester, you and Simmonds come with me," Godfrey added, stepped back into the hall, and tapped at the door of Miss Vaughan's bedroom.

There was no response, and he tapped again. Then he tried the door, found it unlocked, and opened it. He sent a ray of light skimming about the room; then he found the switch, turned on the lights, and entered.

The room was empty, as were the dressing-room and bath-room adjoining. The covers of the bed had been turned back, ready for its occupant, but the bed was undisturbed.

Godfrey glanced about the room again, a sort of frenzied concentration in his gaze, and then went out, leaving the lights burning. It took but a moment or two to look through the other suites. They were all empty.

"If Miss Vaughan was anywhere about, and unharmed," said Godfrey, "the noise we made would have brought her out to investigate. There's only one place she can be," and he led the way resolutely back to the door of Silva's room.

The yogi had not moved.

Godfrey contemplated him for a moment, with his torch full on the bearded face. Then he crossed the threshold, his torch sweeping the floor in front of him.

"Let's see what the Thug is up to," he said, crossed the room, drew back the drapery, and opened the door into the little closet where we had seen Mahbub once before.

There was a burst of acrid smoke into the room, and Godfrey stepped back with a stifled exclamation.

"Come here, you fellows!" he cried, and Simmonds and I sprang to his side.

For a moment I could see nothing; the rolling clouds of smoke blinded and choked me; I could feel the tears running down my cheeks and my throat burned as though it had been scalded.

Then the smoke lifted a little, and I caught a glimpse of what lay within the room.

In the middle of the floor stood an open brazier, with a thin yellow flame hovering above it, now bright, now dim, as the smoke whirled about it. Before the brazier, sat Mahbub, his legs crossed with feet uppermost, his hands pressed palm to palm before his face.

"But he'll suffocate!" I gasped, and, indeed, I did not see how any human being could breathe in such an atmosphere.

And then, as the smoke whirled aside again, I saw the snake. Its head was waving slowly to and fro, its horrible hood distended, its yellow, lidless eyes fixed upon us.

Simmonds saw it too, and retreated a step.

"We'd better keep out of there," he gasped, "till that little pet's put away in his basket."

But Godfrey seized his arm and dragged him back to the threshold of the door.

"Look, Simmonds," he cried, rubbing his dripping eyes fiercely, "there against the wall?—is there something there—or is it just the smoke?"

I looked, too, but at first saw nothing, for a cloud of smoke rolled down and blotted out the light from Godfrey's torch. Then it swirled aside, and against the farther wall I fancied I saw something—a shape, a huddled shape—grotesque—horrible, somehow....

I heard Godfrey's startled cry, saw his hand swing up, saw a tongue of yellow flame leap from his revolver.

And with the echo of the shot, came a scream—a scream piercing, unearthly, of terror unspeakable....

I saw the Thug spring into the air, his face distorted, his mouth open—I saw him tearing at something that swung from his neck—something horrible, that clung and twisted....

He tore the thing loose—it was only an instant, really, but it seemed an age—and, still shrieking, flung it full at us.

I was paralysed with terror, incapable of movement, staring dumbly—but Godfrey swept me aside so sharply that I almost fell.

And that foul shape swished past us, fell with a thud, and was lost in the darkness.

CHAPTER XXIV KISMET!

Words cannot paint the nauseating horror of that moment. Fear—cold, abject, awful fear—ran through my veins like a drug; my face was clammy with the sweat of utter terror; my hands clutched wildly at some drapery, which tore from its fastenings and came down in my grasp....

Three shafts of lights swept across the floor, and almost at once picked up that horrid shape. It was coiled with head raised, ready to strike, and I saw that one side of its hood had been shot away.

I have, more than once, referred to Simmonds as hard-headed and wanting in imagination—not always, I fear, in terms the most respectful. For that I ask his pardon; I shall not make that mistake again. For, in that nerve-racking moment, he never lost his coolness. Revolver in hand, he crept cautiously forward, while we others held our breath; then the pistol spoke, one, twice, thrice, and the ugly head fell forward to the floor.

At the same moment, Godfrey sprang to the door from which volumes of heavy, scented smoke still eddied, and disappeared inside.

I scarcely noticed him; I was staring at that foul object on the floor; and then I stared at Francisco Silva, motionless on the divan, his eyes fixed on the crystal sphere, undisturbed amid all this terror and tumult. It is impossible for me to remember him, as he was in that moment, without admiration—yes, and a little awe.

But Godfrey's voice, shrill with excitement, brought me around with a start.

"Lester!" he shouted. "Lend a hand here!"

Wondering what new horror lay in wait, I fought my way into the other room, stumbled over the body of the Thug, barely saved myself, my scalp prickling with terror, from falling upon it, and pitched forward to where Godfrey was bending above that huddled shape I had glimpsed through the smoke.

"Catch hold!" he panted; and choking, staggering, suffocating, we dragged it into the outer room. "Get a window open!" he gasped. "Get a window open!"

And Simmonds, whom nothing seemed to shake, groped along the wall until he found a window, pulled the hangings back, threw up the sash, and flung back the shutters.

"Quick!" said Godfrey. "Over there. Now hold the torch."

And as I took it and pressed the button with a trembling finger, the halo of light fell upon a bloodless face—the face of Marjorie Vaughan.

Simmonds was supporting her, and Godfrey, with frantic fingers, was loosening her robe at the throat. My terrified eyes, staring at that throat, half-expected to find a cruel mark there, but its smoothness was unsullied. The robe loosened, Godfrey snatched his cap from his head and began to fan the fresh air in upon her.

"Pray heaven it is not too late!" he murmured, and kept on fanning, watching the white lips and delicate nostrils, so drawn and livid. "We must try artificial respiration," he said, after a moment. "But not here—this