“I guess I’m up against it,” he
growled, taking a step forward. “I’ll
have something of what’s coming to me, if I swing
for it.”
His arm was suddenly around her, his face hideously
close. He gave a little snarl as he felt the
pinprick through his shirt sleeve. Then he went
spinning round and round with his hand to his head.
“What in God’s name!” he spluttered.
“What in hell—!”
He reeled against the horsehair easy-chair and slipped
on to the floor. Pamela calmly closed her ring,
stooped over him, withdrew the key from his pocket,
crossed the room and the dingy little hall with swift
footsteps, and, without waiting for the lift, fled
down the stone steps. Before she reached the
bottom, she heard the shrill ringing of the lift bell,
the angry shouting of the woman. Pamela, however,
strolled quietly out and took her place in the car.
“Back to the hotel, George,” she directed
the chauffeur. “Don’t stop if they
call to you from the flats.”
The young man sprang up to his seat and the car glided
off. Pamela leaned forward and looked at herself
in the mirror. There was a shade more colour
in her face, perhaps, than usual, but her low waves
of chestnut hair were unruffled. She used her
powder puff with attentive skill and leaned back.
“That’s the disagreeable part of it over,
anyway,” she sighed to herself contentedly.
The last of the supper-guests had left Henry’s
Restaurant, the commissionaire’s whistle was
silent. The light laughter and frivolous adieux
of the departing guests seemed to have melted away
into a world somewhere beyond the pale of the unseasonable
fog. The little strip of waste ground adjoining
was wrapped in gloom and silence. The exterior
of the bare and deserted chapel, long since unconsecrate,
was dull and lifeless. Inside, however, began
the march of strange things. First of all, the
pinprick of light of a tiny electric torch seemed as
though it had risen from the floor, and Hassan, pushing
back a trap-door, stepped into the bare, dusty conventicle.
He listened for a moment, then made a tour of the
windows, touched a spring in the wall, and drew down
long, thick blinds. Afterwards he passed between
the row of dilapidated benches and paused at the entrance
door. He stooped down, examined the keyless lock,
shook it gently, gazed upwards and downwards as though
in vain search of bolts that were never there.
His white teeth gleamed for a moment in the darkness.
He turned away with a little shiver.
“Not my fault,” he muttered to himself.
“Not my fault.”
