In the Name of the People

by Arthur W. Marchmont

When Bryant saw first Barosa and then the men arrive, he would be shrewd enough to understand that I was in danger. In an hour or two he would be in a parlous fix what to do. Unwilling to leave the house, lest I should be brought out of it, he would have to devise some way of getting it watched; and it was an easy guess that he would solve the difficulty by finding a messenger of some kind to carry word to the men on the launch to fetch the skipper.

The question they had to settle was whether they would enter the house themselves or put the police on the track. The skipper would be for doing it themselves—that was his blunt way; but Bryant’s was a much more cautious nature, and he was far more likely to make up some yarn and set the police to work.

All this would occupy a lot of time, but I felt certain that the night would still be young when they would act.

I lay back on my mattress no longer fretting and chafing at the slow passage of time. I had ample food for thought. I pieced together these speculative doings of Bryant in the intervals of giving rein to the fresh hopes and new delights engendered by my interview with Miralda. I recalled word by word all she had said, treasuring her little asides, her significant glances, her changes of tone and manner, as jewels whose every facet reflected her trust, her courage, and above all her care for me.

I was confident now of success, and it was she who had given me confidence. As the darkness deepened I rejoiced. Each minute was bringing nearer our delivery and reunion.

Some long time after she had left me—perhaps an hour or perhaps two hours, I had no means of reckoning the time, but it had long been quite dark—I heard footsteps approaching the room; and I guessed the curtain was to go up for the next scene.

Barosa and Inez entered together. He carried a lamp, and I could see by its light that the faces of both were very pale. He set the lamp down on the little table and then bent over me.

“Mr. Donnington!” he said. His voice was low and slightly husky, either from suppressed passion or anxiety.

I made no reply, and when he repeated my name and shook me I moaned as if in great pain. There was little enough pretence about it indeed, for the tightness of my bonds was causing acute suffering.

I rolled my eyes upon him, uttered another moan, shook my head feebly, and then closed my eyes.