Again the only reply was the strangest of sounds. Almost it seemed as though a woman were trying to speak with a hand over her mouth. Then Bellamy suddenly stiffened into rigid attention. There were voices in the small reception room,—the voice of Henri, the butler, and another. Reluctantly he turned away from the closed door and walked swiftly down the passage. He entered the reception room and looked around him in amazement. It was still in disorder. Lassen sat in an easy-chair with a tumbler of brandy by his side. Henri was tying a bandage around his head, his collar was torn, there were marks of blood about his shirt. Bellamy’s eyes sparkled. He closed the door behind him.
“Come,” he exclaimed, “after all, I fancy that my arrival is somewhat opportune!”
Henri turned towards him with a reproachful gesture.
“Monsieur Lassen has been unwell, Monsieur,” he said. “He has had a fit and fallen down.”
Bellamy laughed contemptuously.
“I think I can reconstruct the scene a little better than that,” he declared. “What do you say, Mr. Lassen?”
The man glared at him viciously.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” he said. “I do not wish to speak to you. I am ill. You had better go and persuade Mademoiselle to return. She is at Dover, waiting.”
“You are a liar!” Bellamy answered. “She is in her room now, locked up—guarded, perhaps, by one of your creatures. I have been half-way to Dover, but I tumbled to your scheme in time, Mr. Lassen. You found our friend Laverick a trifle awkward, I fancy.”
Lassen swore through his teeth but said nothing.