“That’s what I said.”
“Oh, but surely that’s a bit—”
“Are you going to obey or not?”
The man lifted his shoulders. “All right, Mr. Granton, it’s no affair of mine. Only—”
The man shuffled away. He had an ugly past known to his employer.
Symington cursed under his breath. “No good for to-night. Poor Kitty—it’s a pity, but I can’t help it. Well, to-morrow night ought to settle it, and if not, I can wait. . . . But I might have gone North to-night, lifted the stuff, and got back here under twenty-four hours. Why the blazes didn’t I think of that?” His eyes roved as if in search of an answer, and lighted on the decanter. He glowered at it, and a flush, almost purple, overran his countenance. “Damn you,” he suddenly shouted, “it was you that kept me!” And, snatching it from the table, he hurled it across the room so that it burst into fragments against the wall. There was a breathless pause till he asked in a frightened whisper, “What the devil made me do that . . . made me do that?” He went to bed without finishing the drink in the tumbler.
CHAPTER XXV
Kitty was undoubtedly nearing the limit of human endurance. Threats and offers of bribes had alike failed to move the red-faced woman; not one out of a hundred questions had she answered save by the formula, “I’m sure I couldn’t say, Miss,” or, “You’ll have to ask himself about that.”
It was the fourth night of her incarceration, the third since Symington’s visit. At first she had demanded his presence; later she had implored. The reply was always the same: “Maybe soon; but you must have patience, Miss.” Less than an hour ago she had heard it, and now the quaint little clock on the wall, which she had sometimes loved for its “company,” and sometimes wanted to smash for its heartlessness, tinkled nine. Was another day going to pass without relief, another night of awful uncertainty approaching? She had given up trying to persuade herself that her captor was not vile enough to carry out his menace against Colin—for Colin, she could not doubt, was the second prisoner. Symington, asserted Despair, was surely vile enough for the dirtiest work, since he could so torture the mind of a helpless girl.