CHAPTER XXVI.
THE DAMPENED LETTER.
Shocked and shaken by the terrible fate which had overtaken Simmons, Grail and his companion could only stand staring silently at the flowing waters; but very shortly they aroused themselves from their stunned apathy.
Primarily it behooved them to make good their escape; for the Russians might return at any moment, and, finding them gone from the hut, set afoot a search, which, so long as they remained so near at hand, could not fail to result in their recapture.
With the possibility of such an encounter, they decided not to risk going back through the bottoms, but since the skiff that they had used the night before was close at hand, to take it, and row across the river.
Quickly they launched it, therefore, and Grail, who took the oars, forgot, under the desire for speed, how stiff and sore his arms were.
As he thought of what might have happened to Colonel Vedant while he lay a prisoner—nay, more, of what might have happened to Meredith, recalling Simmons’ interrupted disclosure—he set his teeth in grim determination, and pulled away so furiously that Cato was constrained to protest.
“Here, captain,” he urged, “you’ll wind yourself before we are halfway across. Take it easier.”
But Grail only shook his head, and dug at the water harder than ever. Nevertheless, the swift, eddying current of the river is a thing to test the mettle of any rower, and, despite all that Grail could do, the landing that they finally effected was far downstream.
A passing trolley car, however, afforded them quick means of returning to the city, and, boarding it, they rode until Grail sighted the signboard of a public telephone station, and leaped off to call up with fast-beating heart the home of Mrs. Schilder.
The voice of the French maid answered, and as she repeated his name it seemed to him that there was a distinct flutter of surprise in her tone.