Duvall's head reeled, as he spelled out the words. He had not realized until now that he was wounded. The blood, pouring down his face from the great gash in his cheek, spattered thickly upon the window sill. He turned from the window, then realized that he must send some answer, to let this mysterious person at the other end of the line know that his message had been safely received.
"Will come at once. Who are you?" he spelled out, laboriously, his head spinning, his fingers trembling from weakness as he tried to stop the flow of blood from his wound.
"G-R-A-C-E D-U-V-A-L-L" came back the flashes, quick, clear cut, unmistakable.
Duvall dropped the searchlight to the floor with a harsh laugh. His brain was reeling—the whole thing became a foolish, senseless nightmare. He wondered if he was delirious, and had dreamed it all. Again he flashed a signal into the darkness. "Who are you?" he spelled out again. He did not believe that he had read the former answer aright. Evidently his imagination was playing him tricks—Grace had been on his mind so constantly, throughout the day. He wiped the blood from his eyes and stared eagerly out into the darkness. There was no response.
Then he remembered the words of the message, "Come quick." There was no time for idle speculations as to the identity of the person who had sent him the message.
He rushed to the stairs, and with tottering footsteps descended to the library below. François, the chauffeur, still lay, bound and unconscious, upon the floor.
CHAPTER XVIII
FOR a few moments after being left alone in the studio at Passy, Grace almost lost her courage. She knew that the man who had remained on guard in the room had received the danger signal—the red light—which told him that the plans of his confederates had miscarried. She remembered the instructions which the black-bearded man had given him. "If I do not meet you at Martelle's, take the boy to Lavillac. And before you do so, cut off his left hand and send it to Mr. Stapleton."