The ruse was successful, and with beating heart Stratton stood waiting a little on one side, as there was the click and grate of the latch, and the door was opened a little way.
That was enough. Quick as lightning, Stratton seized and dragged it wide, to step in face to face with Brettison, who started back in alarm and was followed up by his friend, who closed both doors carefully, and then stood gazing at the bent, grey-headed, weak old man, who had shrunk back behind the table, whereon the pipe stood burning slowly, while the unshaded lamp showed a dozen or so of freshly opened letters on the table, explaining their owner’s visit there.
Stratton did not speak, but gazed fiercely at the trembling old man, who looked wildly round as if for some weapon to defend himself, but shook his head sadly, and, with a weary smile, came away from his place of defence.
“Your trick has succeeded, sir,” he said quietly. “Seventy-two! Has the time come? I ought not to fear it now.”
Stratton uttered a harsh sound—half-gasp, half-cry.
“Well,” continued Brettison, who looked singularly aged and bent since they had last stood face to face, “you have found me at last.”
Stratton’s lips parted, but no sound came; his emotion was too great.
“It will be an easy task,” said Brettison, with a piteous look at Stratton. “No sounds are heard outside these chambers—not even pistol shots.”
There was an intense bitterness in those last words which made the young man shrink, and as Brettison went on, “I shall not struggle against my fate,” he uttered a cry of bitterness and rage.
“Sit down!” he said fiercely. “Why do you taunt me like this? You have been here before from time to time. Why have you hidden from me like this?”