“I’ll never let her go until she does tell me,” he answered, fiercely, with another oath. “If I was sure,” he added, “that it was hid in that house, I’d go and burn it down to-night, and then let her go. I’m sick and tired of the whole thing.”
“Better let her go anyway, and run the risk,” said his companion; “you will soon kill her at this rate.”
“Dead men tell no tales,” he answered, moodily; “but the risk is too great, for if that paper contains a description of me, I’m a marked man as long as I live.”
Earle now ventured to push the transom a little more.
It was clear of the wood work, now, and swung quite easily and noiselessly, so that he could get a good view of the room, and he saw a sight that made his heart stand still with horror, while an almost superhuman effort alone prevented a sharp cry of agony escaping his lips.
Upon a bed in the corner opposite him lay Editha Dalton. She was as white as the counterpane covering her, and wasted to a mere skeleton.
She was sobbing in a nervous, excited way, her thin white hands clasped upon her heaving breast, her eyes wild and staring, and fixed in a fascinated gaze upon a burly, repulsive-looking man, who stood by the bedside scowling fiercely upon her.
By his side there also stood a nicely dressed, rather prepossessing woman of about fifty-five.
Their backs were toward the door where Earle was stationed, consequently they had seen nothing of the almost noiseless movement of that transom behind them.
It took all the force of Earle’s will to control his intense excitement as he looked upon the scene just described.