Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 57

Colin lifted his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

“That’s rubbish,” he said bluntly. “Two girls are helpless against four men, even if the men weren’t armed. We’re wasting time. You can’t sit here, twiddling your fingers, with this sort of thing going on. Besides, it’s you who’ve brought on this trouble. I’m not responsible for these people coming here. Neither’s Northfleet. They must have come on your account. They’re out for you. I know a bit more than you think.”

Leven stepped back a pace and set his shoulders against the mantelpiece in what was evidently a favourite attitude.

“I don’t admit that,” he answered. “Still, even if it’s as you say, I’ve nothing to worry about. I’ve laid my plans. You didn’t take us by surprise, you may have noticed. I can meet these people on ground I’ve chosen—here. Am I to disarrange everything and put myself at a disadvantage because a fool of a girl blunders into a mess? Girls aren’t so important as all that, Mr. Trent.”

Colin’s anger choked him at this callous estimate. Before he had time to reply Northfleet broke in:

“Look at it reasonably, if you like, Professor Leven. There are four of these fellows; and there are four of you here. You might win if it comes to shooting; or again you might not. I’m a fair shot myself; Trent can hold a pistol. Isn’t it worth your while to buy our support at a price? If Trent and I act alone we’ll get knocked out and you’ll have thrown away two useful allies. If we all act in common we’ve a sporting chance.”

From Leven’s expression it was plain that he was more impressed by this argument that by Colin’s appeals. He lifted his head and glanced across at Zelensky, as though asking his opinion.

“Zat is sound sense,” the mercenary agreed. “Neffer difide your forces w’en zey are small.”

Leven seemed to consider the question for a moment or two longer.

“I’ll buy you then,” he said, with a shrug which might have meant contempt or vexation. “I suppose your price is some Don Quixote act—rushing to the aid of beauty in distress,” he added, with a sneer. “I don’t think the girls will come to any serious harm; these fellows won’t cut their throats. Have it your own way. But I hope you’ll turn out to be worth buying. I laid my plans for defence, not offence; and you’re making hay of all my arrangements. I suppose you won’t change your minds, though, even now?”

“No,” said Northfleet decisively.

Leven lifted his cold eyes and scrutinised Northfleet for a moment.

“I don’t suppose you’re doing this out of pure altruism?” he questioned with an obvious cynicism.

“No,” answered Northfleet. “I’m doing it on your niece’s account pure and simple.”

Colin was surprised to see Zelensky throw a peculiar glance at Northfleet. What it meant he could not interpret. Northfleet, apparently, did not notice it.

“Ah! Very pretty,” Leven commented on Northfleet’s admission.

A blast on the Klaxon horn startled Colin. At the sound of it, the black-moustached assistant made a convulsive movement. Zelensky slipped swiftly out of the room, and they could hear him clatter along the parquet of the hall. Leven seemed the least perturbed of them all. He heaved himself forward from the mantelpiece and stood alert on the hearthrug, his hands still in his jacket-pockets, listening intently, though the wind drowned all but the loudest sounds.

“If that’s them,” said Colin ungrammatically, “you’d better fork out a pistol for me. I haven’t got any. You’ve got a spare one, I s’pose, with all your preparations.”

Leven nodded.

“Get him an automatic, Beeston,” he said to the dark-moustached man, who rose obediently and left the room. In a few moments he returned with a pistol and some ammunition, which he handed over to Colin. As Colin took it he noticed that Beeston’s hand was trembling violently.

“Good Lord!” Colin reflected. “That beggar’s in a blue funk. He won’t be much good if it comes to the pinch, when he’s in this state already.”

They heard Zelensky’s lumbering tread in the hall, accompanied by a light pattering. The door opened, and Hazel’s dog Peter rushed into the room and began to frisk round Leven’s legs. Zelensky followed with a paper in his hand.

“Zis vas tiedt to ze dog’s collar,” he explained as he handed it to Leven.

Leven opened out the paper carefully, since it had been badly wetted by the rain. As he did so, an expression of approval crossed his face.

“I told you she could look after herself,” he said in a tone which suggested that he was entitled to credit for this. “She’s written it in Morse. I don’t suppose these fellows could read it, even if it had fallen into their hands.”

He perused it slowly, evidently finding some difficulty in deciphering the code. Then he handed it across to Northfleet. Colin leaned over and read it also. The message began with carefully-inscribed dots and dashes; but at the end the writer evidently had grown more agitated and the signs were hastily dashed down. Between that and the moisture on part of the sheet Colin had some difficulty in making out the sense:

“We are shut up in Jean’s room. Four armed men are here. Jean saw them shoot Colin. Then they hustled us up here. Jean is nearly out of her mind with shock. We can’t escape. Patrol goes round house. Shall lower Peter out of window with this. Send help. They look ugly. I’m afraid of them. Tell Cyril Northfleet at shieling. He’ll help. Come soon.”

Here the script became wild and straggling, betraying only too plainly the consternation of the writer:

“Someone is trying our door. Locked. Message. Lights. Hazel.”

As Colin deciphered the message, a tumult of emotions swept his mind: bewilderment, bitter anxiety, gloomy foreboding of worse to come, vengefulness, and an anger all the more furious because of its impotence. Rage finally swallowed up all the others,