Billy Kane said no word. There was a strange whirling in his brain. Some insidious and abhorrent thing was obsessing his consciousness, but in some way it was not fully born yet, nor concrete, nor tangible. He raised his hand and brushed it across his eyes.
“But that’s not all, Mr. Kane, sir.” The whispering voice was coming out of the darkness again, and it seemed curiously fraught with implacability, as though, not content with its unendurable torture, it must torment the more. “They found a letter in the pocket of your dinner jacket, Mr. Kane. It was a letter addressed to Mr. Ellsworth, which the police figure you must have intercepted so that he wouldn’t see it, you being the one who opens the mail, sir. It was a letter warning him to look out for you, sir.”
And now it had come like a flash, the clearing of Billy Kane’s brain, and now it was brutally clear, clear beyond any possibility of misunderstanding; and, as a man walking in a fog that had suddenly lifted, he found himself reeling, in the full consciousness of its horror, on the brink of a yawning chasm.
“My God!” he cried heavily. “This is damnable! I——”
“Keep quiet, sir!” implored Jackson frantically. “They’ll hear you! If you care anything about a chance for your life, don’t make a sound. The police figured that you would do one of three things, sir. They figured that after you had hidden the loot somewhere, you would walk back here as though nothing had happened, and pretend innocence, not knowing about that button and the cord, sir; and so there’s a couple of them waiting for you in the front hall, sir. Or they thought that you might discover you had lost the card with the combinations written on it and remember the letter in your dinner-jacket pocket, sir, and try to get back unobserved, just as you’ve come in now, sir, and hoping that the murder hadn’t been discovered in the meantime, try to recover the card and the letter before you played any other game; and they meant to let you, sir, only, as I told you, there’s a couple more hiding up in your room, and you couldn’t step into the library without the fellows in front seeing you. Or they thought you might just simply make a break for it, make your getaway, sir, and never come back at all; and so there’s an alarm out, and your description, sir, in every precinct in the city, and all the railway stations are being watched. But that’s your only chance, sir, to run for it.”
It was silent here in the great house, ominously, strangely silent; and the silence grew heavy, and grew loud with great palpitating throbs that hammered at the ear drums—and then, in the distance, from the other side of the door in the long passage leading to the front of the house, faint but nevertheless distinct, there came the sound of an approaching footstep.
“There’s someone coming!” whispered Jackson wildly. “Run for it, sir—while you’ve got the chance!”
Billy Kane’s lips were thinned into a hard, straight line. Run for it! He had never run from anything in all his life! And now his brain was working in a sort of lightning debate, battling it out—logic that bade him go, against that finer sense that bids a brave man drop where he stands rather than turn his back.
Still nearer came that footstep.
“Run!” prompted Jackson again. “In another minute it will be too late!”