He staggered to the window once more. Hope buoyed him up. The voice was not that of one of his inquisitors. It was low, sweet, gentle, yet quivering with anxiety.
"Yes, yes!" he whispered. "Who are you? For God's sake, get me out of this place. I am dying here."
"Thank God, you are alive," came the tense whisper from the woman. "I am not too late."
"Who are you?" He had discovered that her features were rendered unrecognisable by an ugly pair of motor goggles. A thick veil held her panama motor hat in place.
She laughed nervously, even shyly.
"Never mind, Mr. Reynolds," she said. "Enough to say that I am here to release you if it is in the power of woman to do so."
"You call me Mr. Reynolds now," he protested. "A moment ago it was 'Cuthbert dear.' Who are you, oh, my deliverer?"
"Don't ask, please. Not now. You shall know in good time. How long have you been here?"
"Ages, it seems. In truth, but five days. She is starving me to death."
"The fiend! Tell me, are you married to her?"