“By heavens, it comes from the alcove!” exclaimed Richards, and racing across the room, he dashed aside the heavy red satin curtains pulled across it. A horrified exclamation escaped him, and he recoiled at sight of Judith, bound and gagged, lying on the window seat. Her body had slipped down the piled up sofa cushions and her right foot just touched the paneled wall and with it she was beating the devil’s tattoo.
“Good God!” gasped Richards, then recovering himself, tore at her fastenings. Ferguson, more clear-headed than the other, slashed at the clothes’ line which bound her with John Hale’s sword cane, and aided him in carrying her to a chair by the table.
“Chafe her arms and ankles so that the blood will circulate,” he advised, while his nimble fingers untied the cord holding the fan, which had been thrust into her mouth as a gag.
Judith, who had watched their efforts in silent agony, raised her cramped arms and massaged the stiffened muscles of her mouth and jaw; then she replaced the wires connecting her earphone and its battery.
“In God’s name who has treated you so, Judith?” demanded Richards, his eyes were blazing with rage. “Who has dared to—” and he choked.
“Fetch my smelling salts,” Judith spoke with some difficulty and paused eagerly to drink the water offered her by Frank Latimer. “No, don’t go, Anna,” placing her hand on the waitress’ shoulder as she knelt at her side chafing her ankles. “Ring for Maud.”
Her father complied with her request, then returned to Judith. For the first time he looked old and haggard.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded, with a return of his domineering manner.
Judith looked at her husband for a fleeting second, then addressed Detective Ferguson whose attention was focused on her.
“I have a confession to make to you,” she began. “You recall finding the bloodstained shears near Austin’s body?”