articulate.
“By God—no!” cried the editor, and sprang forward.
The revolver turned on him.
“Sir,” said the unknown—and his voice sank almost to a whisper—“for God’s sake do not force me to kill you.”
“You shall not commit a cold-blooded murder,” cried the editor in a white heat of anger, and moved forward, but Welby held him back.
“What is the use?” said Welby in an undertone; “he means it—we can do nothing.”
“You can do something,” said the stranger, and his revolver dropped to his side.
Before the editor could answer there was a knock at the door.
“Say you are busy”; and the revolver covered Thery, who was a whimpering, huddled heap by the wall.
“Go away,” shouted the editor, “I am busy.”
“The printers are waiting,” said the voice of the messenger.
“Now,” asked the chief, as the footsteps of the boy died away; “what can we do?”
“You can save this man’s life.”
“How?”
“Give me your word of honour that you will allow us both to depart, and will neither raise an alarm nor leave this room for a quarter of an hour.”
The editor hesitated.
“How do I know that the murder you contemplate will not be committed as soon as you get clear?”
The other laughed under his mask.
“How do I know that as soon as I have left the room you will not raise an alarm?”
“I should have given my word, sir,” said the editor stiffly.
“And I mine,” was the quiet response; “And my word has never been broken.”
In the editor’s mind a struggle was going on; here in his hand was the greatest story of the century; another minute and he would have extracted from Thery the secret of the Four.
Even now a bold dash might save everything—and the printers were waiting … but the hand that held the revolver was the hand of a resolute man, and the chief yielded.
“I agree, but under protest,” he said. “I warn you that your arrest and punishment is inevitable.”
“I regret,” said the masked man with a slight bow, “that I cannot agree with you—nothing is inevitable save death. Come, Thery,” he said, speaking in Spanish. “On my word as a Cabalero I will not harm you.”
Thery hesitated, then slunk forward with his head bowed and his eyes fixed on the floor.
The masked man opened the door an inch, listened, and in the moment came the inspiration of the editor’s life.
“Look here,” he said quickly, the man giving place to the journalist, “when you get home will you write us an article about yourselves? You needn’t give us any embarrassing particulars, you know—something about your aspirations, your raison d’être”
“Sir,” said the masked man—and there was a note of admiration in his voice—“I recognise in you an artist. The article will be delivered to-morrow,” and opening the door the two men stepped into the darkened corridor.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
