The Secret Tomb Maurice Leblanc (best love story novels in english .TXT) 📖

two ago.⁠ ⁠… I had it on my knee.⁠ ⁠… I must have forgotten to put it back⁠—”

Suddenly she made her spring.

Too late. At the very moment that she drew herself together, d’Estreicher, foreseeing it, leapt in front of the door, a revolver in either outstretched hand.

This sudden act was masked by no single word. There was no need of words indeed for the three young men to grasp the fact that the murderer of the false Marquis stood before them. Instinctively they recoiled from the menace; then on the instant pulled themselves together, and ready for the counterstroke, they advanced.

Dorothy stopped them at the moment that d’Estreicher was on the point of shooting. Drawn to her full height in front of them, she protected them, certain that the scoundrel would not pull the trigger. But he was aiming straight at her bosom; and the young men could not stir, while, his right arm outstretched, with his left hand still holding the other revolver, he felt for the lock.

“Leave it to us, mademoiselle!” cried Webster, beside himself.

“A single movement and he kills me,” she said.

The scoundrel did not utter a word, he opened the door behind him, flattened himself against the wall, then slipped quickly out.

The three young men sprang forward like unleashed hounds⁠—only to dash themselves against the obstacle of the heavy door.

XV The Kidnapping of Montfaucon

For a minute or two extreme confusion reigned in the room. Errington and Webster struggled furiously with the old lock. Almost past use, it worked badly from the inside. Exasperated and maddened at having let the enemy escape, they got in one another’s way and their efforts only ended in their jamming it.

Marco Dario raged at them.

“Get on! Get on! What are you messing about like that for?⁠ ⁠… It’s d’Estreicher, isn’t it, mademoiselle? The man you spoke of? He murdered his confederate?⁠ ⁠… He stole the medal from you? Holy Virgin, hurry up, you two!”

Dorothy tried to reason with them:

“Wait, I implore you. Think. We must work together.⁠ ⁠… It’s madness to act at random!”

But they did not listen to her; and, when the door did open, they rushed down the staircase, while she called out to them:

“I implore you.⁠ ⁠… They’re below.⁠ ⁠… They’re watching you.”

Then a whistle, strident and prolonged, rent the air. It came from without.

She ran to the window. Nothing was to be seen from it, and in despair she asked herself:

“What does that mean? He isn’t calling his confederates. They’re with him now. Then, why that signal?”

She was about to go down in her turn when she found herself caught by her petticoat. From the beginning of the scene, in front of d’Estreicher and his leveled revolvers, Maître Delarue had sunk down in the darkest corner, and now he was imploring her, almost on his knees:

“You aren’t going to abandon me⁠—with the corpse?⁠ ⁠… And then that scoundrel might come back!⁠ ⁠… His confederates!”

She pulled him to his feet.

“No time to lose.⁠ ⁠… We must go to the help of our friends.⁠ ⁠…”

“Go to their help? Stout young fellows like them?” he cried indignantly.

Dorothy drew him along by the hand as one leads a child. They went, anyhow, halfway down the staircase. Maître Delarue was sniveling, Dorothy muttering:

“Why that signal? To whom was it given? And what are they to do?”

An idea little by little took hold of her. She thought of the four children who had remained at the inn, of Saint-Quentin, of Montfaucon. And this idea so tormented her that three parts of the way down the staircase she stopped at the hole which pierced the wall, which she had noticed as they came up. After all what could an old man and a young girl do to help three young men?

“What is it?” stammered the notary. “Can one hear the f-f-f-fight?”

“One can’t hear anything,” she said bending down.

She squeezed herself into the narrow passage and crawled to the opening. Then, having looked more carefully than she had done in the afternoon, she perceived on her right, on the cornice, a good-sized bundle, thrust down into a crack, screened in front by wild plants. It was a rope-ladder. One of its ends was fastened to a hook driven into the wall.

“Excellent,” she said. “It’s evident that on occasions d’Estreicher uses this exit. In the event of danger it’s an easy way to safety, since this side of the tower is opposite the entrance in the interior.”

The way to safety was less easy for Maître Delarue, who began by groaning.

“Never in my life! Get down that way?”

“Nonsense!” she said. “It isn’t thirty-five feet⁠—only two stories.”

“As well commit suicide.”

“Do you prefer a knife stuck in you? Remember that d’Estreicher has only one aim⁠—the codicil. And you have it.”

Terrified, Maître Delarue made up his mind to it, on condition that Dorothy descended first to make sure that the ladder was in a good state and that no rungs were missing.

Dorothy did not bother about rungs. She gripped the ladder between her legs and slid from the top to bottom. Then catching hold of the two ropes she kept them as stiff as she could. The operation was nevertheless painful and lengthy; and Maître Delarue expended so much courage on it that he nearly fainted at the lower rungs. The sweat trickled down his face and over his hands in great drops.

With a few words Dorothy restored his courage.

“You can hear them.⁠ ⁠… Don’t you hear them?”

Maître Delarue could hear nothing. But he set out at a run, breathless from the start, mumbling:

“They’re after us!⁠ ⁠… In a minute they’ll attack us!”

A side-path led them through thick brushwood to the main path, which connected the keep with the clearing in which the solitary oak stood. No one behind them.

More confident, Maître Delarue threatened:

“The blackguards! At the first house I send a messenger to the nearest police station.⁠ ⁠… Then I mobilize the peasants⁠—with guns, forks and anything handy. And you, what’s your plan?”

“I haven’t one.”

“What? No plan? You?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve acted rather at random, I’m afraid.”

“Ah,