Part 84 (1/2)

Get to the roof, if you can. Try--oh, try, try, Neeland, my friend!”

Her voice trembled; she looked into his eyes--gave him, in that swift regard, all that a woman withholds until the right man asks.

Her lips quivered; she turned sharply on her heel, went to the outer hallway, where the other woman stood motionless.

”What am I to do with _you_?” demanded Ilse Dumont. ”Do you think you are going out of here to summon the police? Mount those stairs!”

The woman dropped her hand on the banisters, heavily, set foot on the first stair, then slowly mounted as though her little feet in their dainty evening slippers were weighted with ball and chain.

Ilse Dumont followed her, opened a door in the pa.s.sage, motioned her to enter. It was a bedroom that the electric light revealed. The woman entered and stood by the bed as though stupefied.

”I'll keep my word to you,” said Ilse Dumont. ”When it becomes too late for you to do us any mischief, I'll return and let you go.”

And she stepped back across the threshold and locked the door on the outside.

As she did so, Neeland and Sengoun came swiftly up the stairs, and she beckoned them to follow, gathered the skirts of her evening gown into one hand, and ran up the stairs ahead of them to the fifth floor.

In the dim light Neeland saw that the top floor was merely a vast attic full of debris from the cafe on the ground floor--iron tables which required mending or repainting, iron chairs, great jars of artificial stone with dead baytrees standing in them, parts of rusty stoves and kitchen ranges, broken cutlery in boxes, cracked table china and heavier kitchen crockery in tubs which once had held flowers.

The only windows gave on a court. Through their dirty panes already the grey light of that early Sunday morning glimmered, revealing the contents of the shadowy place, and the position of an iron ladder hooked to two rings under the scuttle overhead.

Ilse Dumont laid her finger on her lips, conjuring silence, then, clutching her silken skirts, she started up the iron ladder, reached the top, and, exerting all her strength, lifted the hinged scuttle leading to the leads outside.

Instantly somebody challenged her in a guttural voice. She stood there a few moments in whispered conversation, then, from outside, somebody lowered the scuttle cover; the girl locked it, descended the iron ladder backwards, and came swiftly across to where Neeland and Sengoun were standing, pistols lifted.

”They're guarding the roof,” she whispered, ”--two men. It is hopeless, that way.”

”The proper way,” said Sengoun calmly, ”is for us to shoot our way out of this!”

The girl turned on him in a pa.s.sion:

”Do you suppose I care what happens to _you_?” she said. ”If there were no one else to consider you might do as you pleased, for all it concerns me!”

Sengoun reddened:

”Be silent, you treacherous little cat!” he retorted. ”Do you imagine your riffraff are going to hold _me_ here when I'm ready to depart!

_Me!_ A free Cossack! Bah!”

”Don't talk that way, Sengoun,” said Neeland sharply. ”We owe these pistols to her.”

”Oh,” muttered Sengoun, shooting a menacing glance at her. ”I didn't understand that.” Then his scowl softened and a sudden laugh cleared his face.

”I'm sorry, mademoiselle,” he said. ”You're quite welcome to your low opinion of me. But if anyone should ask me, I'd say that I don't understand what is happening to us. And after a while I'll become angry and go downstairs for information.”

”They know nothing about you in the _salle de jeu_,” she said, ”but on the floor below they're waiting to kill you.”

Neeland, astonished, asked her whether the American gamblers in the _salon_ where Sengoun had been playing were ignorant of what was going on in the house.

”What Americans?” she demanded, incredulously. ”Do you mean Weishelm?”

”Didn't you know there were Americans employed in the _salle de jeu_?”