He stopped dead, staring through the window. He was paralysed with amazement at the sight of a bare-headed Aunt Alma flying along the Gloucester Road. With an oath he turned to the girl.
“How did she get out? Have you got anybody here? Now speak up.”
“The cupboard under the stairs leads to the wine cellar,” said Mirabelle coolly, “and there are two ways out of the wine cellar. I think Aunt Alma found one of them.”
With an oath, he took a step towards her, gripped her by the arm and jerked her towards the door.
“Lively!” he said, and dragged her down the stairs through the hall, into the kitchen.
He shot back the bolts, but the lock of the kitchen door had been turned.
“This way.” He swore cold-bloodedly, and, her arm still in his powerful grip, he hurried along the passage and pulled open the door.
It was an unpropitious moment. A man was walking down the path, a half-smile on his face, as though he was thinking over a remembered jest. At the sight of him the pedlar dropped the girl’s arm and his hand went like lightning to his pocket.
“When will you die?” said Leon Gonsalez softly. “Make a choice, and make it quick!”
And the gun in his hand seemed to quiver with homicidal eagerness.