“Just hand me that piece of paper over there,
and I’ll write out the message,” said
Ronicky, pointing to the little table just beyond the
doorman. The latter turned with a growl, and the
moment he was halfway around Ronicky Doone sprang
in. His right arm fastened around the head of
the unlucky warder and, passing down to his throat,
crushed it in a strangle hold. His other hand,
darting out in strong precision, caught the right
arm of the warder at the wrist and jerked it back between
his shoulders. In an instant he was effectively
gagged and bound by those two movements, and Ronicky
Doone, pausing for an instant to make sure of himself,
heard footsteps in the hall above.
It was too late to do what he had hoped, yet he must
take his prize out of the way. For that purpose
he half carried, half dragged his victim through the
doorway and into the adjoining room. There he
deposited him on the floor, as near death as life.
Relaxing his hold on the man’s throat, he whipped
out his Colt and tucked the cold muzzle under the
chin of the other.
“Now don’t stir,” he said; “don’t
whisper, don’t move a muscle. Partner,
I’m Ronicky Doone. Now talk quick.
Where’s Ruth Tolliver?”
“Upstairs.”
“In her room?”
“Yes.”
Ronicky started to rise, then, for there had been
a slight fraction of a second’s pause before
the victim answered, he changed his mind. “I
ought to smash your head open for that lie,”
he said at a random guess. “Tell me straight,
now, where’s Ruth Tolliver?”
“How can I tell, if she ain’t in her room?”
“Look,” said Ronicky Doone, “if
anyone comes into the hall before you’ve told
me where the girl is, you’re dead, partner.
That’s straight, now talk.”
“She’s with Mark.”
“And where’s he?”
“He’d kill me if I tell.”
“Not if I find him before he finds you.
His killing days are ended! Where’s Mark
and the girl? Has he run off with her?”
“Yes.”
“They’re married?” asked Ronicky,
feeling that it might be a wild-goose chase after
all.
“I dunno.”
“But where are they?”
“Heaven help me, then! Ill tell you.”
He began to whisper swiftly, incoherently, his voice
shaking almost to silence, as he reached the heart
of his narrative.
Chapter Twenty-six
Hills and Sea
The summerhouse lay in a valley between two hills;
resting on the lawn before it Ruth Tolliver lay with
her head pillowed back between her hands, and the
broad brim of her straw that flopped down to shade
her eyes. She could look up on either side to
the sweep of grass, with the wind twinkling in it—grass
that rolled smoothly up to the gentle blue sky beyond.
On the one hand it was very near to her, that film
of blue, but to her right the narrow, bright heads
of a young poplar grove pushed up beyond the hilltop,
and that made the sky fall back an immeasurable distance.
Not very much variety in that landscape, but there
was an infinite variety in the changes of the open-air
silence. Overtones, all of them—but
what a range!
