"And they've already let almost every inmate of the place roam about at their leisure this night—to prove their trustworthiness!" threw in Cleek, with a short laugh. "A fine lot of disciplinarians up in this part of the world, I must say—though of course the country's difficult, and you want about fifty men up here to one in London. I'll have a word with the Inspector before I leave—with your permission, Mr. Narkom."
"Certainly."
"We'll get along now, Dollops. You stand here under the gate, and keep watch toward the Castle; Mr. Narkom, you stand here, and guard the road-end, and make the usual signal of a night owl's hoot if you see any one approaching. I'll slip on my rubber sand-shoes to grip with, and shin up in a moment."
And suiting the action to the word, that was practically what he did do—though the climb up there in the darkness was certainly more than momentary. For with no light and very little moon it was a more difficult task than Cleek had anticipated, and he had to tread carefully to avoid slipping on the narrow shelves of stone and iron that girt it about.
Up, up, up he went, like some dark fly crawling across the face of the night, and to those watching below, their hearts in their mouths at sight of his perilous progress (which at times they could not follow for the pitchy darkness, and knew not if he were safe or not), those moments seemed hours indeed.
But Cleek had been in tighter corners and more difficult places than this in the course of an adventurous lifetime, and the poise and sureness of the man were amazing. Up, and along the stone parapet he went, sliding face toward the stone wall of it, until he could lean back a little and look up at Rhea standing out against the midnight sky like a monstrous splotch of black ink in a lake of indigo-blue. The bronze bell swung beneath him. He knelt cautiously upon one knee, preparatory to whipping out his electric torch, and even as he did so, heard the sound of other footsteps stealing round from the other side and coming toward him with the soft tread of a cat.
Instantly he stopped short—stock-still, as though made out of marble, and leaned back against the parapet while those sliding, soft, creeping, cat-like footsteps came steadily on. He became conscious of a black shape, slim as a woman's, against the midnight sky, that moved with panther-like precision across the face of the parapet. He could actually hear that other person's laboured breaths, and as the Thing steadily approached felt it fan against his cheek.
If Cleek had been in a less precarious position the soul of the man would have relieved itself by laughing outright. For the situation seemed almost funny. But this was no time for humour. The moment he stirred and made himself known, upon that moment the creature—whoever and whatever it was—would pounce upon him, and dash them both down to sure death upon the stones below, and in full sight of the Superintendent's watching eyes. But what to do if he stayed where he was? Detection was certain in any case. There remained only a moment of moments before it actually would come. And in that moment, to be prepared for—what?
The creature came on steadily, picking its way stealthy as a cat across the rugged stone parapet upon which Rhea stood, until it stopped a few inches away from him, face averted, one tense hand clinging to the very stone to which Cleek also clung. Then slowly it turned, knelt upon one knee, reached down a long hand toward the bar from which the great bronze bell swung, made as if to find a foot-hold with one slim black foot, and—Cleek's hand shot out over that other hand, and Cleek's voice whispered in its ear:
"Damn you! what are you doing here?"