desperation climbed the idiot who ought to be thankful for possession of a nose however protuberant; onwards and upwards, excelsior! Scrabbling to ascend the whatever-it-was, I clambered to its narrow top and, standing there, took a deep and thankful breath, for I could see now, albeit dimly.
I could see intimations of sky freckled with stars.
And against it, interruptions in the form of peaks and chimney-pots.
At last!
One more mad scramble over one final confoundment of jutting eaves, and I had achieved the roof.
Panting, I let myself lapse onto the steeply angled shingles, lying flat.
Safe.
No one could possibly find me now. I would simply rest here until daybreak.
But even as I thought it, in the street far below a sergeantly voice bawled, “Wheel it around this side! Over ’ere! ’Ow do you work the fool thing?”
The next moment the most extraordinary blinding-bright white sword of light stabbed the darkness, slashing it wide open and routing night into fleeing shadows. I had read in the newspapers, of course, about Scotland Yard’s new electric search-light, but reading is one thing and being struck by such lightning is another. I am afraid I screamed aloud. However, so did everyone else in the world, or at least everyone in the crowded street below—so I think no one heard me.
“Tilt it up towards the roof!”
“’E’s crazy,” some other man announced. “No one could ’ave climbed up there, much less a woman—”
But I did not stay to listen. Much shaken and feeling a trifle weak, I did not attempt to stand and run on the steep rooftop, instead worming my way up the shingles—a most fortunate if unreasoning reaction; I realised afterwards that they might have “spotted” me otherwise.
However thin I might be, I do not make a very good snake. Still, somehow I reached the peak of Pertelote’s building and, hugging the housetop, slipped over it to the other side.
That fearsome sword of illumination passed where I had just been. Safe on the shadowed side of the roof now, I watched it slice the night.
No, not safe. Next they would wheel it around to this side.
The thought, quite as electric as the light, galvanised me; I must reach another building, and another after that, and so make my escape. Springing to my feet, I ran across the steep slope of the roof towards the rear, away from that dreadful search-light, so bright that even in the shadows I could somewhat see where I was going. There! This rooftop joined directly into another not so steep. Gladly I sprang upon it—
Crash , and I plummeted straight down as if I had stepped off a ledge into air.
C HAPTER THE F OURTEENTH
A MIDST A CASCADING CHORUS, UNMISTAKABLY the sound of broken glass, I plunged. Without my permission my mouth opened to scream.
But before it could do so, my benighted fall ended, whump , in something that cushioned the impact quite effectively.
I landed on my feet, buckled to my knees, and stayed that way amidst—what?
Some poufy, airy, springy substance like a giant bustle-pad. Much harder to identify in total darkness than the glass showering around me with a muffled splashing sound.
I tasted some salty, rather sticky liquid in my open mouth. Ordering the latter to close, I applied my sleeve to the former; yes, it hurt a bit. Blood. A shard of glass had cut my face, evidently. I felt some similar cuts, stinging so that I knew they could not be dangerously deep, on my hands.
All in all, however, it seemed to me that I had come off rather well. My bleeding, although upsetting, was not significant. The search-light would not find me here. I had fallen, I realised with a pang of annoyance at myself for being so stupid, through the roof of Mr. Kippersalt’s hothouse, which of course occupied the very top of the building.
Mr. Kippersalt’s? But Flora spoke as if he were dead. Moreover, if she were the origin of the bizarre bouquets, one must deduce that this was her hothouse.
As these thoughts arranged
I could see intimations of sky freckled with stars.
And against it, interruptions in the form of peaks and chimney-pots.
At last!
One more mad scramble over one final confoundment of jutting eaves, and I had achieved the roof.
Panting, I let myself lapse onto the steeply angled shingles, lying flat.
Safe.
No one could possibly find me now. I would simply rest here until daybreak.
But even as I thought it, in the street far below a sergeantly voice bawled, “Wheel it around this side! Over ’ere! ’Ow do you work the fool thing?”
The next moment the most extraordinary blinding-bright white sword of light stabbed the darkness, slashing it wide open and routing night into fleeing shadows. I had read in the newspapers, of course, about Scotland Yard’s new electric search-light, but reading is one thing and being struck by such lightning is another. I am afraid I screamed aloud. However, so did everyone else in the world, or at least everyone in the crowded street below—so I think no one heard me.
“Tilt it up towards the roof!”
“’E’s crazy,” some other man announced. “No one could ’ave climbed up there, much less a woman—”
But I did not stay to listen. Much shaken and feeling a trifle weak, I did not attempt to stand and run on the steep rooftop, instead worming my way up the shingles—a most fortunate if unreasoning reaction; I realised afterwards that they might have “spotted” me otherwise.
However thin I might be, I do not make a very good snake. Still, somehow I reached the peak of Pertelote’s building and, hugging the housetop, slipped over it to the other side.
That fearsome sword of illumination passed where I had just been. Safe on the shadowed side of the roof now, I watched it slice the night.
No, not safe. Next they would wheel it around to this side.
The thought, quite as electric as the light, galvanised me; I must reach another building, and another after that, and so make my escape. Springing to my feet, I ran across the steep slope of the roof towards the rear, away from that dreadful search-light, so bright that even in the shadows I could somewhat see where I was going. There! This rooftop joined directly into another not so steep. Gladly I sprang upon it—
Crash , and I plummeted straight down as if I had stepped off a ledge into air.
C HAPTER THE F OURTEENTH
A MIDST A CASCADING CHORUS, UNMISTAKABLY the sound of broken glass, I plunged. Without my permission my mouth opened to scream.
But before it could do so, my benighted fall ended, whump , in something that cushioned the impact quite effectively.
I landed on my feet, buckled to my knees, and stayed that way amidst—what?
Some poufy, airy, springy substance like a giant bustle-pad. Much harder to identify in total darkness than the glass showering around me with a muffled splashing sound.
I tasted some salty, rather sticky liquid in my open mouth. Ordering the latter to close, I applied my sleeve to the former; yes, it hurt a bit. Blood. A shard of glass had cut my face, evidently. I felt some similar cuts, stinging so that I knew they could not be dangerously deep, on my hands.
All in all, however, it seemed to me that I had come off rather well. My bleeding, although upsetting, was not significant. The search-light would not find me here. I had fallen, I realised with a pang of annoyance at myself for being so stupid, through the roof of Mr. Kippersalt’s hothouse, which of course occupied the very top of the building.
Mr. Kippersalt’s? But Flora spoke as if he were dead. Moreover, if she were the origin of the bizarre bouquets, one must deduce that this was her hothouse.
As these thoughts arranged
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