It was closed now. There was
a pencil of light shining through the keyhole, and, yet, silently
she stood at the door, and listened. There was the sound of muffled
blows within. A panic seized upon her. "Thieves, thieves--at last!"
Scarcely daring to breathe, she fled, ghostlike, up the stair, and
in a wild paroxysm of fear dashed into the room at the angle of
the hall, where "Prince Djiddin" lay extended upon his couch of
Oriental shawls and cushions. He was restless, and still dreaming,
open-eyed, of his absent love.
The young man leaped to his feet as the frantic woman, with affrighted
gestures, besought his aid and protection, pointing down to the
stairway. Hardwicke's ready nerve failed him not.
Grasping a heavy revolver from under the pillow, a mechanical
arrangement, a memory of his Indian life in the midst of untrusted
subordinates, the officer seized in his left hand the Sikh tulwar,
which was his own "property saber" of Thibetan royalty. Its naked,
wedge-shaped blade was as keen as that of a razor.
Pointing to the key, he mutely signed to the woman to lock herself
in. Then down the stair he crept, ready to face any unseen enemy.
The light streamed out from Janet Fairbarn's open door. "Perhaps
it was only old Simpson, drunk, or trying to gain a surreptitious
entrance," he mused. But the woman had pointed to the light and
the keyhole of the door.
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