Below, Blenheim and his friend were extricating themselves from that blessed table. I passed through the door and thrust it shut and shot the bolts. We were safe for the present. I could not see Miss Falconer, nor did she speak to me; but her hand groped for my arm and rested there, and I covered it with one of mine.
Then, as we stood contentedly drawing breath, we heard steps mounting the staircase. Some one struck a vicious blow against the heavy door. Blenheim’s voice, hoarse and muffled, reached us through the panels.
“Can you hear me there?” it asked.
If tones could kill! I summoned breath enough to answer with cheerful coolness.
“Every syllable,” I responded. “What did you wish to say?”
“Just this.” He was panting, either with exhaustion or fury, and there were slow, labored pauses between his words. “I will give you half an hour, exactly, to come out—with the papers. After that we will break the door down. And then you can say your prayers.”
CHAPTER XXII
THE GUEST OF PREZELAY
The sanctuary into which we had stumbled was as black as Erebus save for one dimly grayish patch, which, I surmised, meant a window. When those heavy feet had clumped down the staircase, silence enveloped us again, beatific silence. Instantly I banished the late Mr. Van Blarcom from my consciousness. With a good stout door between us what importance had his threats?