“We want something more definite,” Crespin objected, when Traherne had finished.
Traherne considered. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “you’re right. We do.”
“How would this do?” Mrs. Crespin asked, picking up her pen again: “‘Death threatened to-morrow evening. Rescue urgent.’”
“Excellent!” Dr. Traherne exclaimed.
She wrote again, and when she held the envelope up to him, Crespin took it, and read aloud slowly, “‘Major Crespin, wife, Traherne, imprisoned, Rukh, Raja’s palace. Death threatened to-morrow evening. Rescue urgent.’ Right. I’ll keep it ready,” he said as he carefully pocketed it.
“Now,” Traherne demanded, “how to get hold of Watkins?”
Lucilla still sat in the swivel-chair—leaning back in it wearily, her eyes half closed, when she had finished writing. She roused herself now, and glanced about. “There’s a bell here,” she said suddenly, seeing it on the writing table. “Shall I try it?” and she put her hand over it.
But Traherne stopped her. “Hold on a moment,” he said quickly. “We have to decide what to do, if he won’t take money, and we have to use force in order to get his keys.”
“By Jove, yes!” Crespin agreed. “And there’s nothing here to knock him on the head with,” he added disgustedly, as he looked eagerly about the room; “not even a chair you can lift—”
“Not a curtain cord to truss him up with—” Traherne added desperately, too searching the room.