"A difficult thing, since it has something like death to answer for"—with a glance at the senseless disfigured form upon the couch; "but an easy thing—a mere bagatelle to a man such as you—a skillful chemist, a practiced handler of chemicals. Monsieur, you will do what yonder bungler failed to do—you will, if you please, combine these chemicals."
"I will not!" The Doctor's temper was roused; the thought that he had been so tricked made him forget the danger he was in. He spoke without any signs of fear now, and faced the pair. Comprehension he had not, but suspicion he had, and he spoke it out hardily. "I will not!" he repeated. "Whatever villainy it is that you perpetrate here, I will have no hand in it. To whatever atrocious use it is that you design to put the things you speak of, I say that I am glad that they have turned upon one scoundrel at least. It is useless to put these chemicals before me—I swear that I will not touch them! I would sooner cut off my right hand!"
"Ma foi, monsieur"—again the elder man smiled!—"you are likely, if you remain obstinate, to lose more than that! Come—consider, sir,—reflect. You are helpless, and we are impatient; your summer nights are short, and we have much to do. Come, then—speak!"
"Ah," cried the younger man suddenly, but in the suppressed tones which both seemed to use habitually—"Hush!"
Doctor Brudenell had heard nothing—could hear nothing, although he listened eagerly; but it seemed that the sound, whatever it might have been, had alarmed the two men. It was evidently repeated, for the lamp was put out instantly, and he felt himself forcibly thrust into what seemed to be a cupboard and heard the key turned in the lock.
For a few moments George Brudenell was dazed again—stupefied. He was so utterly amazed that he could hardly believe that it was not all a dream. Was this the latter half of the nineteenth century….was he in the heart of London? Then suddenly he realized his position, tried to suppress his very breathing and the beating of his heart, for there was a sound of footsteps upon the creaking stairs, some one else entered the room, there was the scratching of a match, and a pale thread of light crept under the door of his prison, showing that the lamp had been relighted. He listened intently, jealously, straining every nerve to hear and to understand. Voices whispered; he could distinguish the tones of the two men, but not their words, the muffled muttering was too low; then there came a cry, followed by a rapid movement toward the door which shut him from these strange whisperers—more, a hand was even laid upon the lock and the key was partly turned. Then there came a scuffle, almost a struggle, a sound of something being dragged along the bare boards, and the voice of the elder man muttering fiercely, threateningly. The Doctor, as the footsteps retreated and the savage, repressed sounds died away into a distant murmur, leaned against the damp wall of his prison, and fought with a fresh perplexity. The new-comer into that gloomy house of wickedness and mystery was a woman! He had heard the sweep of heavy skirts as his door was approached, and that one shrill, hardly-stifled cry had surely been in a woman's voice! Then the pale thread of light was withdrawn, the sound of footsteps moved toward the door, and a horrible fear assailed him. Was he to be left there to break his way out into light or to die in darkness? The notion was horrible; his self-control failed him; and with his clenched hands he hammered upon the panels of the door, calling out loudly that he would not be left there, trapped like a rat, and appealing to them to let him out.
There was a pause, more hurried, unintelligible whispering, then footsteps drew near the door, and outside a voice spoke—the elder man's.
"Be silent, and no harm will be done you. Be patient, sir, and you shall be released."
"When?" demanded Doctor Brudenell.
"When we have done what we have to do. Until then, silence!"