But Hafid was some way off, and nobody seemed to notice. Frobisher struggled, then another loop caught him round the chest, as he fought frantically, slipped up and pinned him round the throat. A thousand stars danced before his eyes; he could hear voices in the distance. In the hour of his peril he caught the sound of Harold Denvers' voice and wondered what he was doing here.
There was a last despairing cry, a choke and a snort and a long shudder of the powerful limbs. The thousand stars went out as if suddenly swept off the face of the heavens by a passing cloud; it was dark with patches of red in it, and Frobisher grew still after a long shuddering sigh. Then he hung for the space of a few minutes—ten, at the outside—before the strain relaxed and he fell crashing to the floor.
There was light laughter in the hall, the fresh sound of a young girl's voice, the firm tones of Harold Denvers demanding to see Sir Clement Frobisher on urgent business. Hafid came forward like a shadow.
"My master is going out," he said. "The car is waiting."
"Tell him I must see him at once," Harold said curtly. "Lady Frobisher, you had better go without your husband, as our business is likely to take some time."
"I must hear my lord and master say so," Lady Frobisher replied. "What is that?"
A long wailing cry from the conservatory, a yell of horror in Hafid's voice. A strange light leapt into Harold's eyes as he dashed forward. He had guessed by instinct what had happened. Hafid was bending over the dead form of his master muttering to himself.
"Take it and burn it, and destroy it," he wailed. "Ah, if they had taken and burnt, and——"
"Hush," Harold commanded sternly with a hand over Hafid's mouth. "I see that you know quite as well as myself what has happened. Stay here a moment and be silent."
Harold hastened back to the hall just in time to intercept Lady Frobisher and Angela. From the expression of his face they knew that some tragedy had happened.