So working, her mind was completely occupied, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, by Dick Gordon. Once or twice the thought of her father and Ray strayed across her mind, but it was to Dick she returned.
The only illumination in the cosy dining-room was a shaded kerosene lamp which stood on the table by her side and gave her sufficient light for her work. All outside the range of the lamp was shadow. She had finished darning a pair of her father’s socks, and had laid down the needle with a happy sigh, when her eyes went to the door leading to the kitchen. It was ajar, and it was opening slowly.
For a moment she sat paralysed with terror, and then leapt to her feet.
“Who’s there?” she called.
There came into the shadowy doorway a figure, the very sight of which choked the scream in her throat. It looked tall, by reason of the tightly-fitting black coat it wore. The face and head were hidden behind a hideous mask of rubber and mica. The reflection of the lamp shone on the big goggles and filled them with a baleful fire.
“Don’t scream, don’t move!” said the masked man, and his voice sounded hollow and far away. “I will not hurt you.”
“Who are you?” she managed to gasp.
“I am The Frog,” said the stranger.
For an eternity, as it seemed, she stood helpless, incapable of movement, and it was he who spoke.
“How many men love you, Ella Bennett?” he asked. “Gordon and Johnson—and The Frog, who loves you most of all!”