Then, suddenly, he became aware of the muffled breathing of one in torture. Groans sounded in low agony.
Fay had no light save wax matches. He sensed
the general direction of the sounds and moved slowly in their direction. Every nerve of him was alert. The heavy drag of the automatic was reassuring. It could be used at an instant’s notice.
The gasps and groans were nearer now. He reached out and touched a man’s form. About this form were many turns of heavy cord. Across the man’s mouth was a stick held in place behind the ears by a sash.
Fay leaned down and strained his eyes. The yellowish light from the open pane sifted through the room. Its details came out like figures on a fogged photograph-plate.
The man, trussed like a stuffed partridge, moved both legs and rolled over. Fay saw a pasty countenance alongside a cap upon which was gold braid. Purple waves mounted up this man’s neck. The gag was a clever one.
“The embassy’s night-guard,� said Fay in a whisper. “Poor chap, I was worried about you all along. Somebody’s beaten me to it.�
He realized with quick thought that the guard had been set upon by a number of men who were now at work on the great strong-box upstairs in the embassy. They had entered the building in some manner, surprised the watchman, trussed and bound him and carried him down into the basement where he would be safe.
Fay leaned over the guard and hissed into his ear:
“Vas has happened?�