"By jocks! No, youuniswap price drop nor no other man. I should say not."
Camille turned red. He understood that he had done something verydoes bitcoin drop before halvingstupid, but he could not conceive what. He looked from one sisterto the other alternately. Rose was smiling ironically, Josephinehad her eyes bent demurely on a handkerchief she was embroidering.That evening Camille drew Rose aside, and asked for an explanationof her "maladroit.""So it was," replied Rose, sharply.
But as this did not make the matter quite clear, Camille begged alittle further explanation."Was it your part to make difficulties?""No, indeed.""Was it for you to tell her a secret marriage would not be delicate?Do you think she will be behind you in delicacy? or that a lovewithout respect will satisfy her? yet you must go and tell her yourespected her too much to ask her to marry you secretly. In otherwords, situated as she is, you asked her not to marry you at all:she consented to that directly; what else could you expect?""Maladroit! indeed," said Camille, "but I would not have said it,only I thought"--"You thought nothing would induce her to marry secretly, so you saidto yourself, 'I will assume a virtue: I will do a bit of cheap self-denial: decline to the sound of trumpets what another will be sureto deny me if I don't--ha! ha!'--well, for your comfort, I am by nomeans so sure she might not have been brought to do ANYTHING foryou, except openly defy mamma: but now of course"--And here this young lady's sentence ended: for the sisters, unlikein most things, were one in grammar.Camille was so disconcerted and sad at what he had done, that Rosebegan to pity him: so she rallied him a little longer in spite ofher pity: and then all of a sudden gave him her hand, and said shewould try and repair the mischief.
He began to smother her hand with kisses."Oh!" said she, "I don't deserve all that: I have a motive of myown; let me alone, child, do. Your unlucky speech will be quoted tome a dozen times. Never mind."Rose went and bribed Josephine to consent."So I expect he will. I have been informed that he is both thorough and energetic in all he does. Perhaps you will show me the way there? I should like to see for myself, and after that the incident shall not be mentioned between us again."
On this assurance, which sounded satisfactory to him, and in saying which the Professor had spoken with a literal sincerity which he did not always employ, Snacklit rose and led the way down the corridor, and by a back-stair to the walled enclosure beside the garden in which the incinerator was built."You have," Professor Blinkwell remarked, as they approached it, "a furnace of ample size."Mr. Snacklit was gratified by this recognition, so that he almost forgot the pains he was enduring as he replied that it was his policy to be ready for all emergencies. There were occasions when a large number of dogs had to be destroyed in a short time. It would be objectionable to keep them lying about, as might happen in smaller and less efficient establishments. And the proportion of large dogs (such as Great Danes and mastiffs) which were offered for his ministrations (probably owing to the cost of their food) was high.As he completed this explanation, they reached the door of the furnace, where the man Wilkes, of whom we have seen nothing except that brief moment when he shared the labour of wheeling the dead taxi-driver across the garden, and of whom we know nothing beyond the negative fact that he had not got red hair, was standing by.
Snacklit asked, "Anything special put into the furnace just lately?"Wilkes may not have known what answer he was expected to give. Anyway, he was discreet in his reply, "I haven't noticed that close."
Snacklit didn't press the point. He said, "I think Professor Blinkwell would like to look in."Wilkes picked up a long-handled hook and drew back the sliding door. The furnace roared in their faces.Whether Professor Blinkwell wanted to look or not Snacklit certainly did. He went forward, blinking into the white heat."I can't see anything of her," he said. "Or at least, not to be sure. Nothing could last long in that heat."
Professor Blinkwell said "No, I suppose not." What he gave Snacklit could not fairly be called a kick. It was a mere push with his foot, well judged and well placed. With a shrill scream the man fell forward into the fire."You'd better close the shutter," the Professor said. "He's not pleasant to watch."Wilkes said no more than, "You're the boss." The hook came into operation again.Chapter 39 Objection To Being Roasted Alive
"I DON'T THINK this is the way out. There was panic in Irene s voice which she could not control.Burfoot had stopped and locked the door through which they had come. There might be no certain significance in that, but he was now leading the way to a glass-walled chamber, the use of which was not difficult to guess, even apart from the faint penetrating odour which never left its precincts, even when it was not charged with the fumes by which it destroyed its countless unsuspecting victims, who were repaid for the love and loyalty they had given to men by this murderous treachery.
Burfoot looked at her with the derisive grin she had seen at their first encounter. He said: "You can please yourself. It's all one to me. But I should say a good whiff of gas is better than being roasted alive.""But - you can't mean it!" she answered faintly. "You said you'd show me the way out, and I'd give you a hundred pounds. Suppose we say two? Or what do you want? It's no use trying to frighten me like this. You can't want to be hanged. I've told you the police are on the way here. I know they are. . . ."
She stopped before the malicious amusement in his eyes. Incredible as it must seem, she knew at that moment that he meant to kill her, and that there was no hope in any pleading, and little in appeals either to greed or fear.The inclination to faint came again, as it had done in the room above, and she knew that, if she should do so, there would be no return to consciousness, unless it should be in some horror of mortal pain.She looked at the man, who was a head taller than herself massive, muscular, able to break her back over his knee, and she knew that, even if she had retained the poker that she had been cajoled into laying down so foolishly, it would have been useless to her. Her wits must save her, or nothing would. And how could her wits avail?The man had listened to her with no sign of relenting. She saw that her terror was amusement to him - that he would find pleasure in that which he was meaning to do. But he answered her, in the tone of one who would show sense to a fool."You didn't think we should let you live? You know a damned sight too much for that.""If I knew that you had saved my life, wouldn't that be a good thing for you?"
It was shrewdly suggested. For one moment he may have hesitated as to whether it would not be best to take whatever money she might promise now and afterwards prove able and willing to pay, and to take the credit of saving her from Snacklit's hands. But would it save him? It is no sufficient legal defence to say that you declined to kill a young lady at night, if it can be proved against you that you helped to murder a taxi-driver at any earlier hour. No, there was one way, and only one, that was sure. . . . And then there was the noise of a key turning in a locked door, and Billson stood in the entrance.For a moment the three stood looking at one another in silence. Then Billson said:
"Kate thought this was about how it'ud be. But I'm not standing for it. It's a bit too thick. . . . You should have left the key in the lock if you didn't want me to come butting in."Burfoot cursed to himself. It was true that he had not given a thought to the duplicate keys that always hung in the outer hall those that Billson, who did the routine killing, was accustomed to use. And he was not a quick-witted man. He was used to carrying out the orders of others, not to plan for himself.
"It's the master's orders," he said at last. "You'd better talk it over with him.""Yes. I'll do that. He'll have to know that we don't stand for murder, not Kate or I. You'd better come and hear what I've got to say."
"We'll wait here till you get back.""Mr. Billson," Irene exclaimed, in a fresh access of terror, "you're not going to leave me here?""No. I won't do that. And I've changed my mind about seeing the master. We'll clear out without any more words."He had guessed that, if he should leave them together, there would be no change in the programme that he had interrupted and, after that, was it likely that he would be allowed to escape? He remembered Wilkes. A man as powerful and perhaps even more brutal than the one who confronted him now If he should go upstairs, he might come down to find that Kate had been already dealt with, and that he had to face two men as desperate, and each as strong as himself.
One, at least, had become desperate now. Burfoot said, "No, you don't." His arm swept round, striking Irene with a force which threw her against the wall, from which she collapsed on to the floor. He leapt forward. "You yellow rat!" he cried savagely, as his left shot outward for Billson's chin.It was a blow which might have been decisive, but Billson swerved, and it did no more than graze the side of his head. It was returned next moment with equal force and more smashing contact, and then the two men fought like raging beasts, while Irene struggled to her feet, to be swept off them again by a rush which was regardless of her.
She tried to dodge the quick movements of the combatants to get past them and through the door, but it was not easy to do without taking the risk of blows which were not intended for her and which she would have been less fit to endure than were those upon whom they fell.But as she watched for the moment of clear passage that she required, there came what may have been the most welcome sound that her ears had heard - her father's voice calling her name, as he hurried along the passage at a pace which left Kate behind, whose part it had been to show him the way.
"Hands up!" he cried sharply, pulling out the weapon on which he had learnt to rely during the adventurous passage of earlier years. But he spoke to those who were too fully engaged upon their own affairs to heed a summons that was less familiar to their ears than it had been to those of his native state.Even to one of his emphatic habits, exasperated as he was by the sight of a dishevelled daughter at the further side of the room, it was not a possible programme to make indiscriminate slaughter of the struggling men, one of whom must presumably be his daughter's champion, though he had no clue to which it might be. So they survived the peril natural to those who ignore the customary American greeting.
But though he did not immediately empty the contents of his gun into their contending bodies, he was in no mood to wait patiently for the struggle, which had become an all-out wrestling match rather than a fight, to proceed to its natural end.Watching his chance, he interposed an adroit foot, which brought Billson heavily to the ground. His opponent found himself confronted by a new antagonist, and a levelled gun. The sharp order, "Stand back, or you're a dead man," came in a tone which the wildest person would be unlikely to disregard. Burfoot did not raise his hands, but they dropped to his sides. Scowling, and breathing hard, he backed toward the sliding glass partition of the lethal chamber.He made no resistance when Kindell, who had entered immediately behind the ambassador, passed a precautionary hand over his pockets."Irene, are you all right?" her father asked, without taking his eyes off the two men, the second of whom had now risen from the floor, and was using the back of his hand to improve the sight of a blackened and bleeding eye. "Then you'd better tell me who's who in this mix-up."
"It's the one you've got covered," Irene replied with ungrammatical lucidity. "He was trying to kill me. Mr. Billson was trying to get me away. I think we owe him a hundred pounds."It was an opportune testimonial, for the police, whose coming Irene had foretold on such dubious grounds, were now crowding into the room.
"Do you charge this man?" a detective-sergeant asked briskly."I charge him with trying to murder me," Irene said, with a fierce hatred in her heart which is easy to understand, "and with helping to kill the driver who brought me here."
"That's enough to go on with," the sergeant answered."It was just a bit of a game," the man said sullenly. "And what about what she'd done before? Bashed Mr. Snacklit's head with a poker before I got her away."