“Are you any good,” he asked suddenly, “at puzzles?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
“Nor, I suppose,” he went on, “do you know anything about knitting?”
“It’s a pity,” I said, “that they didn’t shut your grandmother up here with you instead of me.”
“Yes,” he said. “She is a nice, helpful old lady. However, if, between us, we can manage to unravel that nice handmade sock which cost me half a guinea in London, we will have a long piece of yarn which will immediately put us in communication with the lady next door.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, “nothing easier. During the war they used to send me the most horrible socks from home, and I found an old Frenchwoman who knitted them all up again into good ones. I unravelled them for her, to be sure she would finish before we moved on.” I laid the sock flat on the edge of a wooden chair, took out my slender little gold pen knife which I reflected would have been much more useful to two Monte Cristos if it had been four times as large, with a rough bone handle, though for slicing off the top of the sock it was admirable. After that all I did was pull at it until it began to unravel, and then I went on pulling until in a few minutes we had a very long piece of wool yarn, lying curled at our feet. It took us an hour, then, to untangle it again. I remembered too late that I had learned to wind as I unravelled, to avoid that untangling process. We had to light a candle before we were through. When we had it all wound single, John decided he wanted it wound double, so we started all over again.
“It would have been less trouble,” I said, “to have dug a hole in the wall.”
“You would say that, now that we are all ready to start operations,” he answered. He then wrote a short note, tucked it into the ball, tied one end of the yarn to the window bar, thrust his arm outside and began throwing the ball toward the next room, and then pulling it back again. I was afraid that before he managed to throw it into the other window the ball of yarn would be frayed beyond use, but I was wrong. John often takes the long way around, but he usually gets there. To my surprise the ball was caught and the line pulled taut. Then we waited, a long time it seemed to me, until at last the yarn slackened, and then John untied it, and pulling very gently on the double loop, finally reached a place on its length where a note had been tied. We opened it eagerly. “Yes,” it began, “I am Helena Waldek. How did you get here? I presume you must have been in that car that passed us last night on the road. We are uncomfortable here, but I think in no personal danger. If you get out before I do please go to Herrovosca to Marie. She may need your help to get away. The Queen is so helpless, she has only her wits now against almost everybody. She sent for me because even Marie has grown hard to manage. I have no hope of getting out in time to be of any help, but they may release you because you are Americans. If they do you must take a message to the Queen. It is most important. Tell her that the Black Ghost wears a ruby ring. I will not tell you what that implies because it will be safer for you not to know. But it is of the utmost importance that the Queen should know it. I cannot tell you how important. It makes their danger far greater than before. Burn this note. H. W.”
It was a desperate note, and Helena, of course, must be desperate. Whoever Maria Lalena might really be, she had been Helena’s daughter for eight years, anyway. And if she were Marie Waldek, she was in very great personal danger. This Black Ghost would not even consider her, and I couldn’t blame him very much. She had committed a serious offense. And she could not count on popular help. Mobs are never respecters of persons.
“‘Tell the Queen that the Black Ghost wears a ruby ring,’” John quoted.