Clasped tight in the slender fingers was something that looked like a torn and crumpled rubber glove. He tried to unclasp the fingers, but when he touched them, they contracted rigidly, and a low moan burst from the unconscious girl. So, after a moment, he desisted and laid the hand down again.
"You understand what you're to do?" he asked the maid, and she nodded mutely. "Then come along, boys," he added, and led the way back to the hall. His face was dripping with perspiration and his hands were shaking, but he managed to control them. "And now for Señor Silva," he said, in another tone, taking the torch from my hand. "I fear he will have a rude awakening."
"He sat there like a statue, even when I shot the snake," remarked Simmonds. "He's a wonder, he is."
"Yes," agreed Godfrey, as he stepped into the entry, "he's a wonder." Then he stopped, glanced around, and turned a stern face on Simmonds. "Where's the man I left on guard here?" he asked.
"Why," faltered Simmonds, "I remember now—he helped us carry the young lady. But we were all right there in the hall—you don't mean ..."
Godfrey stepped to the inner door and flashed his torch about the room. The divan was empty.
Simmonds paused only for a single glance.
"He can't be far away!" he said. "He can't get away in that white robe of his. Come along, Tom!" and, followed by his assistant, he plunged down the stairs.
I saw Godfrey half-turn to follow; then he stopped, ran his hand along the wall inside the door, found the button, and turned on the lights. His face was pale and angry.
"It's my fault as much as anyone's," he said savagely. "I might have known Silva would see the game was up, and try to slip away in the excitement. I ought to have kept an eye on him."