“That there’s is,” he said huskily. “Looks like ’e weren’t expectin’ it. . . . But don chew lose art, miss—’e always wuz the luckiest man wot ever stepped. P’raps ’e’s as right as ryne, lyin aht comfitible somewhere jus’ lettin the Tiger think ’e’s a goner an get keerless, an orl set ready ter pop up an’ ’av the larf on ’im lyter.”
It was not Orace’s fault if he did not sound very convincing. His arm went clumsily about her, and drew her gently away and outside the room.
“One thing,” he observed in an exaggeratedly commonplace tone, “ther carn’t be no Tiger Cubs angin arahnd ’ere naow—the noise we’ve myde, they’d uv bin buzzin in like ornets be this time, if ther ’ad bin.”
“Could we get a rope and go down?” she asked, striving to master her voice.
“I’ll git sum men from the village to ’av a look,” he promised. “Ain’t nothink we can do fer im fee is dahn there—’e’d uv gorn howers ago. . . .”
She leaned weakly against the wall, eyes closed and the tears starring on her cheeks, while Orace tried in his rough but kindly manner to console her. She hardly heard a word he said.
The Saint gone? A terrifying emptiness ached her heart. It was horrible to think of. Could a man like him be meant for such an end—to die alone in the unanswering darkness, drowned like a rat? He would have kept afloat for a long time, but if he had been alive and down there then he would have shouted back to them. Perhaps he had struck his head in the fall. . . .
And then, slowly, a change came over her.
There was still that hurtful lump in her throat, and the dead numbness of her heart, but she was no longer trembling. Instead, she found herself cold and quiet. The darkness was speckled with dancing, dizzy splashes of red. . . .
This was the Tiger’s doing—he was the man who had sent Simon Templar to his death. And, with a bitter, dead, icy certainty, Patricia Holm knew that she would never rest until she had found the Tiger.