THE days that remained of a terrible week imposed a strain upon Helen almost beyond what she could bear. On the next afternoon the locksmith came at the time appointed and was able to provide a key to the safe out of the stock of keys in his possession.
As soon as the man had gone, Helen opened the safe and satisfied herself that the phial in its gun-metal case was still there. She had been given to understand that a child might use it, so remarkably simple was its operation. The colorless fluid, rather less in quantity than one tenth of a liter, had merely to be sprinkled on the coat of the victim at a point contiguous to the spinal column. Death would then ensue in three hours or less, without leaving a trace of its cause.
With a sense of grim repulsion, Helen pressed the tiny spring which held together the gun-metal case—a thing of exquisite contrivance—and satisfied herself that the phial and syringe were very much as she expected to find them. Her horror of this devilish thing was very real. But to the best of her ability she had thought out what had to be done. She saw herself as the hapless instrument of destiny. And she had not endured nine-and-twenty years of life without a clear perception of the stern fact that its decrees, no matter how ruthless, how savage, must be accepted.
She now awaited, with every spark of patience she could muster, a reply to her letter to Saul Hartz. He might not even deign to answer it. Or if answer he did, being the man he was, with so many calls upon his inadequate day of twenty-four hours, he was hardly likely to find the time or to take the trouble to pay a visit to Brompton Square. And in that event, which seemed to grow more and more inevitable, what then must be her course of action?
In the grip of a problem that would not bear thinking about, Helen waited, every sense astretch, for the arrival of each post. Three and four times a day she flew to the letter box, in the vain hope of seeing the crabbed, familiar handwriting of Saul Hartz lying in it.
Would no answer come? In the course of a distracted Wednesday that question became in her mind a specter. In Fate’s hourglass the sands were running out. Life was now so sharp a torment that it was hardly bearable. Strong her will yet was and, in spite of all, her faith still firm. And at the beck of some power, not herself, she was called to play a part which she believed to have the highest sanction.
In the last resort, she was sure that the movements of the Colossus, whose shadow might soon be lying athwart the whole world, must be determined by Fate itself. Was God’s hand strong enough to direct this man to her house at the time she had proposed? It was the sense and the knowledge of ultimate things which kept Helen sane in the course of the intolerable hours of that Wednesday night.
The next morning, after a vigil which seemed interminable, she was down before eight o’clock. That was the hour, as a rule, when the first post came. Eagerly she listened for the familiar knock. And when, just as the hour struck, the knock was plainly heard, she could hardly muster courage to go as far as the letter box in the hall. Go, however, she did.
There was a mail of eight letters. And among them one, a small neat envelope, bore the unmistakable handwriting which for two days past had been stamped upon the retina of Helen’s imagination.
She tore the letter open. There was a brief line:
“MY DEAR HELEN:
“Yes, certainly, with the greatest pleasure I will come and see your new home at four o’clock Friday afternoon.
“Yours always,
“S. H.”