Sara went on, only it was certainly Maida that spoke in the coarse, breathless, furtive voice. “If the Nobleman has talked, they're coming back for us. There's a dozen chances the bridge trick won't work. And, even if it does, the whole pack will be down here to investigate. All very well for you to say that we need just twenty-four free hours to pull the thing off, but I tell you what, madam, Jaffrey and me are gettin' pretty sick—we'd like a glimpse of them jools.”
One phrase of this speech had struck me deaf and half blind. I made a sign of caution to the horrible creature, and I went out. I stopped in the hall to look at the tall grandfather's clock ticking loudly and solemnly. It was already very nearly five o'clock. Paul Dabney's train was in, and he was on his way to “The Pines.” I stood there stupidly repeating “the bridge trick” over and over to myself. The bridge trick! Henry had had a saw and an axe. He might just as easily have been weakening a plank as strengthening it. Had it not been for my presence, his entire reliance on my skill in diverting Mrs. Brane's suspicion, we should not have seen him at his work. But thinking me his leader, the real instigator of the crime, he had probably decided that for some reason I had brought Mrs. Brane purposely to watch him at his task. It was five o'clock. Paul Dabney would be near the bridge. He was probably bringing with him a detective, this Hovey, of whom Sara had spoken so vilely. And the red-haired woman did not mean them to reach “The Pines” that night. By this time she probably had some knowledge of the secret of the bookcase, and she must feel that she had successfully frightened away my desire to take out a book at night. She would rob the bookcase some time within the next twenty-four hours, before any one found the smothered bodies of Paul Dabney and his companion, and with her treasure she would be off. Sara and Henry would give notice. I stood there as though movement were impossible, and yet I knew that everything depended upon haste.
I began to reckon out the time. The train got in to Pine Cone at four-thirty, and it would probably be late. It was always late. It would take two men walking at a brisk pace at least an hour to reach the swamp. It was now just five o'clock. I had thirty minutes, therefore, in which to save the secret of the bookcase and to rescue the man I loved. It would take me at least twenty minutes to get to the bridge; once below the top of the hill I could run as fast as I liked. Every second was valuable now. I went into the bookroom and shut the door. Kneeling on the floor I tumbled out the books as I had seen the Baron, doubtless Sara's “Nobleman,” do. Then I removed the middle shelf and began tapping softly with my fingers. There was the hollow spot, and there, just back of the shelf I had removed, was a tiny metal projection. I pushed it. Down dropped a little sliding panel, and I thrust my hand into the shallow opening. I was cold and shuddering with haste and fear and excitement. My fingers touched a paper, and I drew it out. I did not even glance at it. I hid it in my dress, closed the panel, restored the shelf, and returned the books as quickly and quietly as I could. Then I went out into the hall.
The clock had ticked away fifteen of my precious minutes. If the train was late, I still had time. I went out of the front door and began, with as good an air of careless sauntering as I could force my body to assume, to stroll down the winding driveway. I longed to take a short cut, but I did not dare. I was sure that my double was on the watch. She would not leave that driveway unguarded on such an afternoon. I felt that my life was not a thing to wager on at that moment. I doubted if I should be allowed to reach the bridge alive. The utter importance of my doing so gave me the courage to use some strategy. I actually forced myself to return, still sauntering, to the house and I got a parasol. Then I walked around to the high-walled garden. Here I strolled about for a few moments, and then slipped away, plunged through a dense mass of bushes at the back, followed the rough course of a tiny stream, and, climbing a stone wall, came out on the road below the hill and several feet outside of “The Pines” gateway. My return for a parasol and the changed direction of my walk would be certain to divert suspicion of my going towards the bridge. Nevertheless, I felt like a mouse who allows itself a little hope when the watchful cat, her tail twitching, her terrible eyes half shut, allows it to creep a perilous little distance from her claws. As soon as I was well out of sight of the house, I chose a short cut at random, shut my parasol, and ran as I had never run before.
CHAPTER X—THE SWAMP
I HAVE always loved pine trees since that desperate afternoon, for the very practical reason that the needles prevent the growth of underbrush. My skirts were left free, and my feet had their full opportunity for speed, and I needed every ounce of strength and breath. Before I came to the top of the last steep slope that plunged down to the stream, I heard a hoarse, choking cry, that terrible cry for “Help! Help! Help!” It was a man's voice, but so thick and weak and hollow that I could not recognize it for Paul Dabney's. I did not dare to answer it, such was my dread of being stopped by some murderess lurking in the gnarled and stunted trees. But I fairly hurled myself down the path. There was the bridge. I saw that a great gap yawned in the middle of it. I hurried to the edge. Down below me in the gray, rotten-smelling shadows floated a desperate, white face. Paul Dabney's straining eyes under his mud-streaked hair looked up at me, and the faint hope in them went out.
“You again!” he gasped painfully. “You've come back to see the end...” He smiled a twisted, ironical smile. “If I could get my hand out of this infernal grave I'd let you wrap some of that hair of yours around my fingers. That's your trade-mark, is n't it? Did you come back for that?” He sank an inch lower, his chin had gone under. He lifted it out, bearded with filthy mud, and leaned back as though against a pillow, closing his eyes. He had given up hope.
All this, of course, took but a moment of time. I had been looking about, searching the place for help. Near the edge of the horrible, sluggish stream lay a board, left there by Henry after his devilish work, or, else, fallen when Paul Dabney had broken through. It lay on the farther bank. I stood up, measured the distance of the break in the bridge, and, going back a few paces, ran and jumped across. It was a good jump. I hardly looked to see, however, but hurried down the opposite bank and shoved out the board towards Paul Dabney. Only his face now glimmered like a death-mask on the surface of the mud.