Heaped up in a corner of the place, amongst the straw
and litter of the lair, lay the Burmese dacoit, his
sinewy fingers embedded in the throat of the third
and largest leopard—which was dead—whilst
the creature’s gleaming fangs were buried in
the tattered flesh of the man’s shoulder.
Upon the straw beside the two, her slim, bare arms
outstretched and her head pillowed upon them, so that
her rippling hair completely concealed her face, lay
Karamaneh....
In a trice Barton leapt upon the great beast standing
over Homopoulo, had him by the back of the neck and
held him in his powerful hands whining with fear and
helpless as a rat in the grip of a terrier. The
second leopard fled into the inner lair.
So much I visualized in a flash; then all faded, and
I knelt alone beside her whose life was my life, in
a world grown suddenly empty and still.
Through long hours of agony I lived, hours contained
within the span of seconds, the beloved head resting
against my shoulder, whilst I searched for signs of
life and dreaded to find ghastly wounds.... At
first I could not credit the miracle; I could not receive
the wondrous truth.
Karamaneh was quite uninjured and deep in drugged
slumber!
“The leopards thought her dead,” whispered
Smith brokenly, “and never touched her!”
“Listen!” cried Sir Lionel Barton.
He stood upon the black rug before the massive, carven
mantelpiece, a huge man in an appropriately huge setting.
I checked the words on my lips, and listened intently.
Within Graywater Park all was still, for the hour
was late. Outside, the rain was descending in
a deluge, its continuous roar drowning any other sound
that might have been discernible. Then, above
it, I detected a noise that at first I found difficult
to define.
“The howling of the leopards!” I suggested.
Sir Lionel shook his tawny head with impatience.
Then, the sound growing louder, suddenly I knew it
for what it was.
“Some one shouting!” I exclaimed—“some
one who rides a galloping horse!”
“Coming here!” added Sir Lionel.
“Hark! he is at the door!”
A bell rang furiously, again and again sending its
brazen clangor echoing through the great apartments
and passages of Graywater.
Above the sibilant roaring of the rain I could hear
some one releasing heavy bolts and bars. The
servants had long since retired, as also had Karamaneh;
but Sir Lionel’s man remained wakeful and alert.
Sir Lionel made for the door, and I, standing up,
was about to follow him, when Kennedy appeared, in
his wake a bedraggled groom, hatless, and pale to
the lips. His frightened eyes looked from face
to face.
“Dr. Petrie?” he gasped interrogatively.
“Yes!” I said, a sudden dread assailing
me. “What is it?”
