“Up here in the telegraph office,” said Arrelsford, “send them up quick.”
The answer was evident sufficient, for they could hear the orders and the tumult in the square below.
“Corporal of the Guard, Post Four! Fall in the guard! Fall in! Lively, men!” and so on.
The game appeared to be up this time. Mr. Arrelsford held all the winning cards, thought Thorne, and he was playing them skilfully. He ground his teeth at the thought that another moment and the order would have been sent probably beyond recall. Fate had played him a scurvy trick, it had thwarted him at the last move, and Arrelsford had so contrived that his treachery had been before the woman he loved. Under other circumstances the wound in his wrist would have given him exquisite pain, as it was he scarcely realised at the time that he had been hurt.
Arrelsford still stood by the window, glancing out on the square but keeping Thorne under close observation. The evil look in his eyes and the malicious sneer on his lips well seconded the expression of triumph in his face. He had the man he hated where he wanted him. It was a splendid piece of work that he had performed, and in the performance he sated his private vengeance and carried out his public duty.
On his part, Thorne was absolutely helpless. There was that in the bearing of the woman he loved that prevented him from approaching her. He shot a mute look of appeal to her which she received with marble face, apparently absolutely indifferent to his presence, yet she was suffering scarcely less than he. In her anguish she turned desperately to Arrelsford.
“I am not going to stay,” she said decisively, “I don’t wish to be a witness.”
“Whatever your feelings may be, Miss Varney,” persisted Arrelsford, “I can’t permit you to refuse.”
“If you won’t take me downstairs, I will find the way myself,” returned the girl as if she had not heard.
She turned resolutely toward the door. Before she reached it the heavy tramping of the guard was heard.