Her feet and arms were bound, the gag was still in her mouth,—there was no escape, no succor.
There was the river; there was le Cochon.
Nothing more.
What more, indeed, was necessary to complete the picture?
Death.
Nothing was easier. No conclusion more mathematically certain.
With his knife between his teeth the assassin hastily adjusted the straps under her arms. It was but the work of half a minute from the time he had stopped, though to the terror-stricken child it seemed an age of torment.
The rags were packed tightly down in the bottom of the basket.
"It'll do for a sinker," said the man.
Then he cut the thongs that held her arms, severed the ligament that bound her feet, and with one hand removed the cloth from her mouth, while with the other he suddenly pushed his victim over the edge of the stone quai.