The detectives noiselessly removed their shoes before attempting the last flight, and placed them inside the unlocked room, which they noiselessly closed again.
They were now ready for the final reconnaissance.
By placing the balls of their stockinged feet on the edges of the steps, they succeeded in mounting to the third floor without making any more noise than that produced by the contact of their clothing.
A slight pause at the top served to satisfy them that the noises all proceeded from one room at the front of the house. They were already close to the door of this room, and they listened breathlessly.
Words were plainly audible now, punctuated at frequent intervals by loud bursts of laughter.
It sounded like a merrymaking of some kind. What was going on behind that closed door? Had they made a mistake in entering the house and wasted precious time in following a will-o’-the-wisp, when Helga Lund might be even then in the greatest danger?
Nick and his assistants feared so, and their hearts sank heavily.
But no. The next words they heard reassured, but, at the same time, startled them. The voice was unmistakably Grantley’s.
“That’s enough of pantomime,” it said, with a peculiar note of cruel, triumphant command. “Now give us your confession from ‘The Daughters of Men’—give it, but remember that you are not a great actress, that you are so bad that you would be hooted from the cheapest stage. Remember that you are ugly and dressed in rags, that you are awkward and ungainly in your movements, that your voice is like a file. Remember it not only now, but always. You will never be able to act. Your acting is a nightmare, and you are a fright—when you aren’t a joke. But show us what you can do in that confession scene.”
Nick and Chick grew tense as they listened to those unbelievable words, and to the heartless chuckles and whisperings with which they were received. Apparently there were several men in the “audience”—probably Chester and some of Grantley’s other former accomplices.