Her breath caught in a strangling gasp. One bookcase was swinging loosely on its secret hinge and the safe in the aperture behind was open, a handful of documents scattered upon the floor.
Slowly her light travelled along the wall creeping ever nearer and nearer to the hearth. The brass andirons glittered dazzlingly from the darkness and the outline of a massive chair leaped into prominence. Something lay relaxed upon its arm, and the wavering light stopped.
It was a black coatsleeve, motionless but seemingly vibrant with life and from it protruded a pallid hand shapely and slender, its tapering fingers loosely extended.
There was a roaring as of many waters in Betty's ears and her heart seemed to have ceased to beat, but mechanically she trained the light upward. Jack Wolvert's face, diabolic in triumph, leered at her.
CHAPTER XI.
The Fourth Pew.
For a long moment Betty stood transfixed with the electric torch rigid in her hand and her eyes held by the insolent challenging ones so near hers. Then with an almost physical effort she wrenched her gaze away just as his cynical voice, drawling no longer, but keen with malign exultation, cut the silence like a knife thrust.
"So, Little Mouse! You venture forth from your hiding place at night when all are sleeping, to nibble at forbidden dainties, eh?"
He sprang from his chair with the agility of a cat and seized her wrist in a viselike grip which forced her tortured fingers to relax their hold and the torch clattered to the hearth. His hot breath, laden with the fumes of wine, played upon her neck, and she felt, rather than realized, the menace in his low, breathed words.
"I thought there was a traitor in camp! Who sent you here to spy upon us, girl? In whose pay are you? Quick, or I'll—"