the gutter and his head up to its proper elevation, for his only
means of telling when he had reached his destination was by
peering down over the gutter at the windows underneath. And that destination
was the room outside which the scrawny-necked individual had been
lounging when he arrived.
Once a loose section of metal gave him the
most nerve- racking two-yard journey of his life; more than once, when one of the men who were searching for him prowled under the house,
he had to remain motionless, with all his weight on the heels of his
hands, till the muscles of his arms and shoulders cracked
under the strain. It was a task which should have taken the
concentration of every fibre of his being, but the truth is that he was
thinking about Fay Edwards for seven-eighths of the way.
What was she doing now? What was she doing at
any time in that bloodthirsty half-world? Simon realized that even now he had not
heard her speak—his assumption that she was the girl of Nather’s
telephone was purely intuitive. But he had seen her face an
instant after his knife had laid Ualino open from groin to breastbone, and
there had been neither fear nor horror in it. Just for that instant the amber
eyes had seemed to blaze with a savage light which he could not
understand; and then he had smashed the electric bulb and was on his
way. He might have thought that the whole thing was a moment’s hallucination,
but there was the metal of the automatic still between his teeth to be
explained. His brain tangled with that ultimate amazing
mystery while he warped himself along the edge of yawning nothingness; and he
was no nearer a solution when the window that he was aiming for came vertically
under his eyes.
At least there was nothing intangible or
mysterious about that; and he knew that there was no prospect of the general tempo of
whoopee and carnival slackening off before he got home to bed. With one searching
glance over the ground be low to make sure that there was no lurking
sentinel waiting to catch him in midair, the Saint slid himself forward head
first into space, neatly reversed his hands, and curled over into the precarious
dark.
He hung at the full stretch of his arms,
facing the window of his objective. It was closed; but a
stealthily inquiring pressure of one toe told him that it was fastened only
by a single catch in the centre.
There was no further opportunity for caution.
The rest of his evening had to be taken on the run, and he knew it.
Taking a deep breath, he swung himself backwards and outwards; and as his body
swung in again towards the house on the returning pendulum he raised
his legs and drove his feet squarely into the junction of the
casements.
The flimsy fastening tore away like tissue
paper under the impact, and the casements burst inwards and smacked
against the inside wall with a crash of breaking glass. A treble wail of fright came
out to him as he swung back again; then he came forward a second time
and arched his back with a supple twist as his hands let go
the gutter. He went through the window neatly, skidded on a
loose rug, and fetched up against the bed.
The room was in darkness, but his eyes were
accustomed to the dark. A small white-clad shape with dark curly hair
stared back at him, big eyes dilated with terror, whimpering softly. From the
floor below came the thud of heavy feet and the sound of hoarse
voices, but the Saint might have had all the time in the world. He
took the gun from between his teeth and pushed down the safety catch with
his right hand; his left hand patted the girl’s shoulder.
“Poor kid,” he said. “I’ve come
to take you home.”
There was a surprising tenderness in his
voice, and all at once the child’s whimpering died down.
“You want to go home, don’t you?”
asked the Saint.
She nodded violently; and with a soft
comforting laugh he swung her up in the crook of his arm and crossed the
room. The door was locked, as he had expected. Simon held her a
means of telling when he had reached his destination was by
peering down over the gutter at the windows underneath. And that destination
was the room outside which the scrawny-necked individual had been
lounging when he arrived.
Once a loose section of metal gave him the
most nerve- racking two-yard journey of his life; more than once, when one of the men who were searching for him prowled under the house,
he had to remain motionless, with all his weight on the heels of his
hands, till the muscles of his arms and shoulders cracked
under the strain. It was a task which should have taken the
concentration of every fibre of his being, but the truth is that he was
thinking about Fay Edwards for seven-eighths of the way.
What was she doing now? What was she doing at
any time in that bloodthirsty half-world? Simon realized that even now he had not
heard her speak—his assumption that she was the girl of Nather’s
telephone was purely intuitive. But he had seen her face an
instant after his knife had laid Ualino open from groin to breastbone, and
there had been neither fear nor horror in it. Just for that instant the amber
eyes had seemed to blaze with a savage light which he could not
understand; and then he had smashed the electric bulb and was on his
way. He might have thought that the whole thing was a moment’s hallucination,
but there was the metal of the automatic still between his teeth to be
explained. His brain tangled with that ultimate amazing
mystery while he warped himself along the edge of yawning nothingness; and he
was no nearer a solution when the window that he was aiming for came vertically
under his eyes.
At least there was nothing intangible or
mysterious about that; and he knew that there was no prospect of the general tempo of
whoopee and carnival slackening off before he got home to bed. With one searching
glance over the ground be low to make sure that there was no lurking
sentinel waiting to catch him in midair, the Saint slid himself forward head
first into space, neatly reversed his hands, and curled over into the precarious
dark.
He hung at the full stretch of his arms,
facing the window of his objective. It was closed; but a
stealthily inquiring pressure of one toe told him that it was fastened only
by a single catch in the centre.
There was no further opportunity for caution.
The rest of his evening had to be taken on the run, and he knew it.
Taking a deep breath, he swung himself backwards and outwards; and as his body
swung in again towards the house on the returning pendulum he raised
his legs and drove his feet squarely into the junction of the
casements.
The flimsy fastening tore away like tissue
paper under the impact, and the casements burst inwards and smacked
against the inside wall with a crash of breaking glass. A treble wail of fright came
out to him as he swung back again; then he came forward a second time
and arched his back with a supple twist as his hands let go
the gutter. He went through the window neatly, skidded on a
loose rug, and fetched up against the bed.
The room was in darkness, but his eyes were
accustomed to the dark. A small white-clad shape with dark curly hair
stared back at him, big eyes dilated with terror, whimpering softly. From the
floor below came the thud of heavy feet and the sound of hoarse
voices, but the Saint might have had all the time in the world. He
took the gun from between his teeth and pushed down the safety catch with
his right hand; his left hand patted the girl’s shoulder.
“Poor kid,” he said. “I’ve come
to take you home.”
There was a surprising tenderness in his
voice, and all at once the child’s whimpering died down.
“You want to go home, don’t you?”
asked the Saint.
She nodded violently; and with a soft
comforting laugh he swung her up in the crook of his arm and crossed the
room. The door was locked, as he had expected. Simon held her a
Similar Books
