"Oh, we'll leave him somewhere propped up against a door. Likely he'll never know what happened to him, or where. He ain't nothing to be afraid of—just a butler with a cracked head. It's the other guy who has got the brains. Come on; let's take a look out in the alley."
Their shadows vanished up the stairs, the glow of light disappearing, and leaving the cellar in impenetrable darkness. West did not venture to move, however, content to wait until thoroughly assured the way for escape was clear. He had not learned much from this conversation, except to increase his conviction that a serious crime was being consummated. The full nature of this conspiracy was as obscure as ever; rendered even more doubtful indeed by the active participation of Natalie Coolidge. This was what puzzled and confused him the most. He could no longer question her direct interest in the affair, or her willingness to assist in overcoming his efforts. Even without the free testimony of the men this fact was sufficiently clear. She had deliberately lied to him, attempted deceit, and then, when he refused to yield to her efforts, had so reported to Hobart, and left him to his fate. It was manifestly impossible for him to believe in her any longer. Yet what could it all mean? How could she hope to benefit by such an association? Why could she thus shield the murderers of Percival Coolidge? What possible object could there be in the commission of this crime, except to gain possession of her own fortune? It was all mystery to his mind; a new unanswerable question arising wherever he looked.
What strange influence could this man Hobart exercise over the girl? To West's judgment he was in no way the sort of man to appeal to Natalie Coolidge. He was of a low, cunning order, with some degree of outward polish, to be sure, yet inherently tough, and exhibiting marks of a birth-right which indelibly stamped him of a social class far below her own. Surely, she could not love the fellow, yet unquestionably he possessed a mysterious power over her, difficult to explain through any other hypothesis. If West had not known the young woman under different conditions, he might have accepted this theory, and dismissed the whole matter from mind. But it was the haunting memory of that earlier Natalie Coolidge, the mistress of Fairlawn, which would not permit his complete surrender. She had seemed all that his dream of womanhood called for. Unconsciously, he had given her his heart, and he could not tear the remembrance from mind. There was something wrong, terribly wrong; what it was he had no means of knowing, yet, there in the dark, he determined he would know, would never be content until he learned the whole truth. All his hope, all his future, depended on the answer.
Hobart and Turner were absent for some little while; the sound of their voices ceased, but the distant flicker of the lantern enabled West to trace their progress up the alley, and then back again. They returned in no pleasant humour, convinced that their expected victim had escaped safely, but made no further effort to search the yard. Hobart said enough to make it plain that his immediate project was to disappear, leaving Mike to his own devices. With this point settled the two tramped heavily up the stairs, and disappeared within. West, confident at last, that the way was left clear, wriggled out from his place of concealment behind the barrel, and stood erect. He felt stronger now, and in less pain, convinced that his injuries were in no degree serious. He could move his limbs freely and his mind was active. The darkness was so intense he had to grope his way forward, anxious to make no noise which might betray his presence. No doubt the basement could be reached in some way from the floor above, and any unusual sound below might easily attract attention.
In the intensity of the gloom, his sense of direction failed, taking him somewhat further back before he finally located the exact position of those outer steps. Then as he turned abruptly, his foot came in contact with an obstacle on the floor. For an instant he could not determine what it was; then, with a thrill of horror, he realized the presence of a human body. There was no sound, no movement, and West drew back from contact with the object, shrinking in horror. Then he gripped himself sternly—whoever, whatever this was, he must know. Alive or dead he must determine the truth. He bent over, feeling with his hands in the darkness. Good God, the flesh was warm; it was no cold corpse he touched, but a living human being; ay! tied like a mummy, unable to move hand or foot. Then, as suddenly, his groping fingers, eager enough now, discovered the cause of silence—the man was gagged, cruelly gagged, helpless to utter a sound.
CHAPTER XIX
THE COMING OF A MESSAGE
The situation once realized, West worked rapidly. If this bound man was Sexton, the quicker he could be released the better. Hobart had already revealed his plans, and might appear at any moment for the purpose of executing them. If escape was to be achieved, it must be accomplished at once. In the darkness his fingers could do nothing with the knot, but the sharp blade of a knife quickly severed the twisted cloth, and the gag was instantly removed from between the clinched teeth. The man moaned, breathing heavily, but made no other sound while West slashed at the cords lashing his limbs, finally freeing them entirely. Not until this had been accomplished did he pause long enough to ask questions.
"There; that's the last. Now who are you—Sexton?"
"Yes, sir," weakly, and in a mere whisper, "an' I know yer voice, sir.
Thank God, yer found me, sir."