“Some one’s coming up the passage!” Dr. Traherne whispered sharply. “Go on! Go on! I’ll hold the door.”
“Come and be damned!” Antony Crespin said. And the subtle fingers went gayly, carefully, very rapidly on.
Suddenly Traherne braced himself against the door, gripping its handle till his knuckles showed white and sharp through the strained, tanned skin. In another moment a sharp word of command was given outside, and the rasping sound came in of shoulders heaved against the man-held door. Traherne put all his strength, all his will, to the stand he made, but gradually the door gave to the greater strength outside, and slowly but surely three of Rukh’s guards pushed it open, and half tumbled into the room, almost thrown down by the force of their own exertion. And Traherne, drenched in his sweat—it dripped from him—was shoved by the push of the opening door, till he stood, trembling, but not untriumphant, not far from Mrs. Crespin.
Crespin went on transmitting—thought better of it—and pretended to be finding some wave-length, careful that it should not be that to Amil-Serai.
The corridor was a Babel. Hurried steps and guttural oaths, shrill questions, hot commands choked and packed it.
Rukh came in quickly—it had not taken him long to come—an inscrutable smile on his tan face, a murderous twinkle in his quickened eyes. He grasped the situation instantly—lifted his eyebrows amusedly, keenly surprised even in the moment’s imperative rush—he knew he had no time to waste—to see not Traherne but Crespin at the instruments.
“Ah!” he exclaimed lightly. “When the cat’s away—” He laughed delicately as he whipped out a revolver, and instantly fired.
He had aimed well. His eyes, wrist and fingers had been as steady and cool as quick.
“Got me, by God!” Major Crespin exclaimed with a stolid grunt, as he crumpled up, fell forward over the instrument. But he recovered himself immediately, making the last great effort of his ebbing life, its supreme effort perhaps, and, with a lightning-like rapidity, that seemed more of intense living than of dying, unmade the instruments’ adjustment. Then with a tormented laugh, a ghastly sound, he pulled himself up, groped with hands, eyes, sagging head, staggered back from the wireless set and lurched into the arms that caught him and held him, Lucilla, his wife’s, and Basil Traherne’s, while Rukh, smiling impassively, stood and watched them—and the guard, crowding the snuggery now—watched their Raja and waited his command.
They got the dying man to the couch, half dragging, half carrying him there—he could not move—and as they passed him, the Raja drew courteously back from their way.