Her back straightened. She took the rope from Imbrie’s hands, and passed a turn around his extended wrists. Stonor kept his gun at the man’s head.
“At this range it would make a clean hole,” he said, grinning.
To Clare he said: “Tie it as tight as you can. I’ll finish the job.”
When she had done her best, he handed his gun over and doubled the knots. Forcing Imbrie to a sitting position, he likewise tied his ankles.
“That will hold him, I think,” he said, rising.
The words seemed to break the spell that held Clare. She sank down on the stones and burst into tears, shaking from head to foot with uncontrollable soft sobs. The sight unnerved Stonor.
“Oh, don’t!” he cried like a man daft, clenching his impotent hands.
Imbrie smiled. Watching Stonor, he said with unnatural perspicacity: “You’d like to pick her up, wouldn’t you?”
Stonor spun on his heel toward the man. “Hold your tongue!” he roared. “By God! another word and I’ll brain you! You damned scoundrel! You scum!”
If Imbrie had wished to provoke the other man to an outburst, he got a little more than enough. He cringed from the other’s blazing eyes, and said no more.