"You make me feel uneasy, Dorothy," he chuckled. "What? No resistance? What pretty behavior, my dear! There must be something in the way of a trap under it all. So I'll be off."
Outside she caught sight of the two men, who were on guard at the big gate. One of them was the confederate she knew, from having seen him at Juliet Assire's cottage. The other, his face flattened against the bars of a small wicket, was watching the road.
D'Estreicher called to them:
"Keep your eyes skinned, boys. You mustn't be caught in the sheepfold. And when I whistle, bucket off back to the hillocks."
He himself made for them with long strides without weakening under his burden. She could smell the odor of a damp cellar with which his subterranean lair had impregnated his garments. He held her by the neck with a hard hand that bruised it.
They came to the wooden bridge and were just about to cross it. No more than a hundred yards from it, perhaps, among the bushes and rocks, was one of the entrances to his underground lair. Already the man was raising his whistle to his lips.
With a deft movement, Dorothy snatched the disc, which was sticking up above the top of the pocket into which he had stuffed it, and threw it towards the pool. It ran along the ground, rolled down the bank, and disappeared under the water.
"You little devil!" growled the ruffian throwing her roughly to the ground. "Stir, and I'll break your head!"
He went down the bank and floundered about in the viscid mud of the river, keeping an eye on Dorothy and cursing her.
She did not dream of flying. She kept looking from one to another of the points at the top of the wall above which she expected the heads of the farm-servants or the detectives to rise. It was certainly five or six minutes past the hour, yet none of them appeared. Nevertheless she did not lose hope. She expected d'Estreicher, who had evidently lost his head, to make some mistake of which she could take advantage.