HER excogitations came to a sudden end. The bright color left her cheeks, and she stood up, rigid, her head bent forward. The heavy doors were closed but her ears were very keen. She had heard a light footfall on the stair. Stealthy?
She had a high courage and had seldom felt fear; physical fear, at least. But the servants never returned to this part of the house at night and were in bed and asleep shortly after nine o’clock. And the house was set far back from the road. And it must be nearly midnight. For a moment she lost her breath and shivered. Then she jerked her head angrily and shook her nerves into order. Her jewels had been sent to the bank and the pearls were in the safe. That hiding-place behind the panel in her grandmother’s room was known only to herself, Topper, Elsie, Polly, and Eustace.
She blew out the candles, removed her slippers, and stole to the door leading into the hall. It opened without a sound and she hid behind it and peered out through the crack. The hall was dimly lighted. She saw no one, but again she heard that light footfall. It stopped as if in doubt, and she held her breath. Then it moved toward the library. She heard a door open, close.
She tiptoed across the hall and up the stairs. Her bedroom door was open. She had closed it to shut in the warmth of the fire. She lit the gas and glanced about swiftly. Nothing, apparently, had been disturbed.
Elsie, who was timid, had made her buy a pistol and keep it in the drawer of the table by her bed. She took it out, examined it to make sure it was still loaded, then crept down the stairs and listened at the door of the library. Soft light steps were pacing up and down. What on earth could the man want? There was no safe in the library. . . . The silver? She stole over to the dining-room. The silver was locked every night in safes concealed behind false doors in the lower part of two immense sideboards. She closed the door and lit the gas. There was no evidence that the room had been visited since Topper had put it in order for the night.
She returned to the library door. The man was still pacing. He must be after the furniture and was awaiting the signal of a confederate. She had found little time for detective stories but she had read a few. And the furniture in the manor house was worth a small fortune.
She flung open the door and raised the pistol. “Stick up your hands!” she commanded, recalling the formula.
The room was in complete darkness but she saw a detached shadow move suddenly forward.
“Don’t advance another step,” she cried, and hoped he would be too startled to perceive that her arm wabbled; she must be outlined against the faint light of the hall. “One step more and I’ll fire.”
The man made a sudden bolt to the right and then a rush at her. She fired, and thought the house was crashing about her ears. But the man came on, and she darted to the other side of the room, realizing her mistake at once; she should have retreated to the hall.
The man’s ears were as keen as hers and it was evident he had been neither hit nor deafened. He came straight for her, and she could only hope he would trip over some piece of furniture. She was safe from that danger for she had arranged the furniture herself.
She dodged behind the center table and fired again, hoping that if she could not hit that agile shadow the servants would be roused by the noise. But they slept in a wing and were cut off from the main house by massive doors. This time she hardly noticed the sound, she heard nothing but the man’s heavy breathing.
The shadow was on the opposite side of the table. She was about to fire, confident that this time he could not escape her, when he disappeared. A second later a hand caught her ankle and she was tripped and thrown flat. She had the presence of mind to give a violent lurch and roll behind a chair. But she had no time to rise, for the man had emerged from under the table and was feeling about the floor. She still clutched her pistol.
She heard him rise to his feet and move about uncertainly. She held her breath, no longer terrified. She was too angry. The back of the chair was very high. She dared not raise her head. If he would only come round the corner. She felt a cold desire to kill, and would not fire again until he was so close it would be impossible to miss him. But he was standing still, his breath coming in short gasps. Then his breathing stopped altogether, while her own released breath sounded like a wind in her ears. An instant later he had flung the chair aside and was upon her.
She managed to struggle to her feet but he had his arm about her and was groping for the pistol. His hot breath was on her face and she exerted herself frantically. She kicked him, and regretted her slippers. She tried to bite him and was tempted to drop the pistol and use her free hand to scratch his eyes out. But the pistol was her only hope, and even in that iron embrace she managed to duck and writhe and fling herself back. She was as strong as he was! Not for nothing was she an out-of-doors’ girl.
She held her right hand rigidly behind her, twisting him about as well as herself as he tried to reach her hand. They revolved in absurd gyrations, breathless, speechless. Suddenly his hand grasped her right shoulder and tried to wrench it. She bent down her head and bit him. He gave a hard gasp, then jerked her still more firmly to him, put his hand over her face, forcing back her head, and rained kisses on her neck and throat.
For a moment she had an illusion of paralysis. Not for an instant had she imagined the man was after anything but loot. He had come for her! Or was this revenge? Or a desperate attempt to shock her into submission? What difference? She knew that her skin was soft and sweet and the man virile. And she was almost at his mercy.
She was possessed by such a fury of rage as she had never believed even she could experience. Her exhibition to De Witt Turner had been but a pale umbra of what she felt at this moment when her sacred virginity was threatened.
The man was panting. He took his hand from her face and she felt his lips approaching her own. She butted him in the chest with her head, gave a violent wrench that half freed her, swung round her pistol and fired. The man dropped without a groan.
For a moment she could not stir, her legs were sinking under her. Then she staggered to the table, felt for matches, and lit the lamp. She stood gasping and panting, not daring to turn her head.
Courage ebbed back. Something must be done. Police. Ambulance. Topper. She started to leave the room. The man groaned, very faintly.
Perhaps she’d better put a pillow under his head. She tiptoed back to her fallen assailant, intending to approach him from behind. The word “malingering” occurred to her. And no doubt he had a pistol of his own.
And then she stopped and screamed twice. The man lying in his blood was Eustace Bylant.
Some time later she was wondering if she had fainted. She was sitting on a chair, shaking from head to foot, her teeth chattering. Hours seemed to pass.
Slowly her blood resumed its even flow, her limbs obeyed her will, and suddenly she laughed.
“So! Caveman stuff! Eustace! And he would have committed hara-kiri before he would have introduced such a scene into one of his novels. And a rotten psychologist after all.”
She felt not the slightest remorse, nor stab of pity. She would have shot him as deliberately if she had guessed who he was.
But something must be done and at once.
She slipped a pillow under his head and went out to the room under the stair where the telephone was concealed. She took down the receiver, but stood in doubt. He must have a doctor—but whom? Her grandmother’s old physician had retired. She literally did not know the name of a doctor in New Jersey. Eustace had one in New York, for he suffered at times from dyspepsia. But here—what on earth should she do? She must consult Topper.
She was starting for the wing, when she turned suddenly and ran back to the cupboard.
Elsie! Of course!
It was five minutes before she could rouse Central, who had probably eaten too many chocolates and fallen asleep. Three more before anyone in the house on States Avenue could be awakened. But finally a man’s voice demanded drowsily:
“Well, what is it, this time of night?”
Gita nearly dropped the receiver. “Dr. Pelham? It can’t be you! Is it you?”
The voice sprang to life. “Is that you, Gi—Mrs. Bylant?”
“Yes. Come quickly. Don’t ask any questions. Bring Elsie. Bring—other things.”
The voice became cool and alert. “We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Gita replaced the receiver on its hook. “What luck! What luck!” But she was trembling once more.
She knew nothing of first aid and she felt she never wanted to look at Eustace again. She hoped she hadn’t killed him, as she had no desire to be a murderess, even in self-defense. But the violence of that embrace and those kisses had turned her heart into granite. She could feel its weight.
And then she was aware of a certain grim humor in the situation. Her would-be defiler was her legal husband!
She walked up and down the hall until she heard a car racing up the avenue. She unbarred and unlocked the door. As she opened it Dr. Pelham and Elsie sprang out of the car and ran up the steps.
“I’ve shot Eustace,” she announced briefly. “Thought he was a burglar. He’s in the library.”
Dr. Pelham, bag in hand, went swiftly down the hall without a look at Gita. He was a surgeon on his way to a serious case, nothing more.
Elsie grasped Gita’s hand and stared at her. Her face was white and quivering.
“I did,” said Gita defiantly. “Couldn’t see who it was in the dark. Didn’t expect him till Friday.” Never would she breathe a word of that horrible scene to anyone.
Hand in hand the girls walked reluctantly to the library. Dr. Pelham had cut out the arm of Bylant’s coat and shirt and was packing the wound with sterilized gauze.
“Is he dead?” gasped Elsie.
“No. Wounded in the shoulder, luckily. Is there a strong man about the place? We must get him upstairs to his room. Elsie, telephone for a nurse.”