“By the way,” Berry shouted suddenly, as he was arranging the articles in an orderly row on the divan table, “where’s Joel Lacey?”
“Oh yes, of course,” Belknap murmured quietly, coolly, and as if to reprimand Berry for his raised voice. “You would want to know. Well, dead or alive, you’ll find her in that strong-box over yonder. Top left-hand drawer, so to speak! If you ever knew the combination it isn’t the same now. I changed it.”
“To what?” Berry cried desperately from where he already stood beside the great door of Whittaker’s wall-safe. “Quick!”
“9031.”
Berry fumbled stupidly with the locks. The terrible speed of events during the past few hours, together with the excited, thrilling knowledge of his own scoop (it had been his idea to put Nadia up to her piece of acting, which he had to admit had been beautifully done on her part) had reduced the still ingenuous Berry to a trembling, weakened condition of hand and eye. Stebbins, whose emotional flights limited themselves to rage and suspicion, took the job from him. Under his stolid fingers the blocks fell quickly, expertly into place. And, on the final number, the heavy door sprang. The two men slowly swung it back.
Joel was there. She lay in a tumbled, cramped heap among a litter of papers on the safe bottom. There was no least sign of life—and there was an odor of chloroform. From her attitude it appeared unlikely she had ever regained consciousness since being thrown into the airtight compartment. They lifted her to the couch. Belknap kept his eyes averted.
Julian chose this particular moment to appear. He was shouting something about the doors of the wine cellars being locked and no keys to be found— He stopped, looked, and, in another flash, was on his knees beside Joel, his arms around her, calling her name. It took Berry every ounce of extra strength to tear Julian free and fling him away on the floor.
“Keep off, you fool. Give the child air. She is dying for lack of air—just that.”
Berry, with Stebbins’ clumsy help, rendered such first aid as one gives the drowning. Julian hovered near them muttering a frantic rigmarole of endearments for Joel, and ugly curses for humanity in general, Berry in particular. Two policemen, large and unresponsive, kept a firm guard on Belknap who sat stone-motionless, apparently absorbed in his bound hands lying limply before him on the table. He remained breathlessly still, until at last—it seemed forever—Joel, almost invisibly at first, and then visibly, drew a breath, stirred, and faintly stiffened with renewed life as a Japanese pulp flower opens to water. Then, in unison with her, Belknap too breathed, stirred, shifted his position. Berry saw, and as he quietly lifted Joel into Julian’s arms, felt a pang of sympathy for the great man he had so long admired and envied. How are the mighty fallen. But he had only to look at Joel’s face, and Julian’s, to lose every iota of it.
“Here, boy, carry her upstairs. Wrap her up good and warm; and give her some hot brandy, if you can find any. She’ll be as right as rain in no time, mark my words for it. And, what’s more, it’s going to be plain sailing for you two from now on. Remember that, and don’t worry.” He tapped the Diary with a meaning forefinger. “It’s a closed book; you know what I mean. Easy there, don’t fall.” He turned to question Belknap.