The Secret Tomb by Maurice Leblanc (i like reading .txt) 📕

to go out of the house, d’Estreicher, grimacing ironically behind his spectacles and under his thick beard, stood on the threshold of the front door.

Dorothy never carried a revolver. All her life she never cared to trust to anything but her courage and intelligence. She regretted it at this horrible moment when she found herself face to face with the man who had murdered her father. Her first act would have been to blow out his brains.

Divining her vengeful thought, he seized her arm quickly and twisted it, as he had twisted the arm of old Juliet Assire. Then bending over her, he snapped:

“Where have you put it?⁠ ⁠… Be quick!”

She did not even dream of resisting, so acute was the pain, and took him to the little room, and pointed to the heap. He found the disc at once, weighed it in his hand, examining it with an air of immense satisfaction and said:

“That’s all right. Victory at last! Twenty years of struggle come to an end. And over and above what I bargained for, you, Dorothy⁠—the most magnificent and desirable of rewards.”

He ran his hand over her frock to make sure that she was not armed, then seized her round the body, and with a strength which no one would have believed him to possess, swung her over his shoulder on to his back.

“You make me feel uneasy, Dorothy,” he chuckled. “What? No resistance? What pretty behavior, my dear! There must be something in the way of a trap under it all. So I’ll be off.”

Outside she caught sight of the two men, who were on guard at the big gate. One of them was the confederate she knew, from having seen him at Juliet Assire’s cottage. The other, his face flattened against the bars of a small wicket, was watching the road.

D’Estreicher called to them:

“Keep your eyes skinned, boys. You mustn’t be caught in the sheepfold. And when I whistle, bucket off back to the hillocks.”

He himself made for them with long strides without weakening under his burden. She could smell the odor of a damp cellar with which his subterranean lair had impregnated his garments. He held her by the neck with a hard hand that bruised it.

They came to the wooden bridge and were just about to cross it. No more than a hundred yards from it, perhaps, among the bushes and rocks, was one of the entrances to his underground lair. Already the man was raising his whistle to his lips.

With a deft movement, Dorothy snatched the disc, which was sticking up above the top of the pocket into which he had stuffed it, and threw it towards the pool. It ran along the ground, rolled down the bank, and disappeared under the water.

“You little devil!” growled the ruffian throwing her roughly to the ground. “Stir, and I’ll break your head!”

He went down the bank and floundered about in the viscid mud of the river, keeping an eye on Dorothy and cursing her.

She did not dream of flying. She kept looking from one to another of the points at the top of the wall above which she expected the heads of the farm-servants or the detectives to rise. It was certainly five or six minutes past the hour, yet none of them appeared. Nevertheless she did not lose hope. She expected d’Estreicher, who had evidently lost his head, to make some mistake of which she could take advantage.

“Yes, yes,” he snarled: “You wish to gain time, my dear. And suppose you do? Do you think I’ll let go of you? I’ve got you both, you and the medal; and your bumpkin of a Raoul isn’t the man to loosen my grip. Besides, if he does come, it’ll be all the worse for him. My men have their orders: a good crack on the head⁠—”

He was still searching; he stopped short, uttered a cry of triumph and stood upright, the disc in his hand.

“Here it is, ducky. Certainly the luck is with me; and you’ve lost. On we go, cousin Dorothy!”

Dorothy cast a last look along the walls. No one. Instinctively, at the approach of the man she hated, she made as if to thrust him off. It made him laugh⁠—so absurd did any resistance seem. Violently he beat down her outstretched arms, and again swung her on to his shoulder with a movement in which there was as much hate as desire.

“Say goodbye to your sweetheart, Dorothy, for the good Raoul is in love with you. Say goodbye to him. If ever you see him again, it will be too late.”

He crossed the bridge and strode in among the hillocks.

It was all over. In another thirty seconds, even if he were attacked, no longer being in sight of the points on the wall at which the men armed with guns were to rise up, he would have time to reach the mouth of the entrance to his lair. Dorothy had lost the battle. Raoul and the detectives would arrive too late.

“You don’t know how nice it is to have you there, all quivering, and to carry you away with me, against me, without your being able to escape the inevitable,” whispered d’Estreicher. “But what’s the matter with you? Are you crying? You mustn’t, my dear. After all why should you? You would certainly let yourself be lulled one of these days on the bosom of the handsome Raoul. Then there’s no reason why I should be more distasteful to you than he, is there? But⁠—hang it!” he cried angrily, “haven’t you done sobbing yet?”

He turned her on his shoulder and caught hold of her head.

He was dumbfounded.

Dorothy was laughing.

“What⁠—what’s this? What are you laughing at? Is it p-p-possible that you dare to laugh? What on earth do you mean by it?”

This laughter frightened him as a threat of danger? The slut! What was she laughing at? A sudden fury rose in him, and setting her down clumsily against a tree, he struck her with his