Gillmore nodded in a surly sort of fashion. He was terribly afraid of Anstruther, who used all his creatures like puppets, and never afforded them the slightest information. His power was all the greater for this; he knew that he was hated as much as he was feared. He put on his hat and coat now, and Gillmore rose also. Seymour darted away back through the bedroom and on to the window ledge again. It struck him as just possible that Gillmore might want to use his bedroom, in which case the chances of being discovered were great. But Seymour made his way back again to his own sitting-room. Once there he lighted a cigarette and sat down to think over the situation.
It was not long before he had made up his mind what to do.
Evidently there was no great hurry over the little scheme which Anstruther had planned in connection with the Great Metropolitan Hotel, and doubtless an hour or two would elapse before Gillmore found his way into the corridor. It would not be prudent to carry out the plan until the hotel was getting fairly quiet, so that Seymour had plenty of scope for a counter stroke.
He spent the next hour or so in his bedroom intent upon some sort of disguise. Something in the way of a mask, accompanied with side whiskers and a pair of spectacles, changed him beyond recognition. A little while later, and he found himself engaging a room at the Great Metropolitan. He appeared to be rather particular about his choice, and finally decided that No. 18 would suit his requirements. As he had expected, No. 18 was exactly opposite the room chosen by Anstruther for Gillmore's little plot. Once this was settled, it seemed to Seymour that there was no occasion for hurry. It was eleven o'clock before he made his way up to his bedroom. He did not close the door, nor did he turn the light on. He sat down grimly and patiently in the darkness to await developments.
The corridor was perfectly silent now, and either the occupants of the hotel had retired to rest, or had not yet returned from the theatre. This was the time, Seymour felt pretty certain, that Gillmore would set to work. With his room door ajar, Seymour had a perfect view of the room on the other side of the corridor. It seemed to him that he could hear somebody now coming stealthily down the passage. Then another sound grated on his ear--it was an unmistakable cry of pain and fear from the room opposite.
Seymour crossed the corridor and coolly entered the room opposite.
[CHAPTER XXXVIII.]
THE CRY IN THE NIGHT.
There was a man in the room surely enough. He was but half dressed; he had fallen forward over a table, apparently in a state of collapse. He seemed to be seeking something; and then Seymour saw that he was clutching at a bottle of brandy, of which he appeared to be in evident need. There was no suggestion of intoxication about him, so that Seymour had no hesitation in forcing a few drops of the potent fluid between the man's pallid lips.
Strange as the situation was, Seymour did not fail to notice the extraordinary way in which his companion's face was cut and scarred and bound with sticking plaster. Then he suddenly realized to whose assistance he had come. This was surely the man Jack Masefield had told him about--the man who had sent him the ring, and who knew the whole history of the Nostalgo business. The invalid opened his eyes presently, and gazed in a dull kind of way at Seymour.