“They’re—there,” Marty Le Gros gasped. “They’re—in—her—”
It was his supreme effort, and it remained uncompleted. His words died away in a gasping jumble of sounds that rattled in his throat. For one brief spasm his arms struggled with the men supporting him. Then his head lolled forward again, and his body limpened. A moment later the supporting hands were removed and Marty Le Gros fell back on the ground—dead.
The yellow eyes of the leader were turned on the young man who had just re-entered the room bearing in his arms the screaming Felice.
“Too late,” he said coldly. “You’ve blundered, Sate. It was that clumsy shot of yours. Maybe you’ll learn someday. Tcha!”
Sate dropped the screaming child roughly to the ground. His black eyes sparkled. There was triumph as well as resentment in them.
“That so? Oh, yes. Well, here are the plans. He sealed them when they were finished. We saw that. Eh?”
He held out the packet he had found in Felice’s cot, and the older man accepted it without a sign. In a moment he withdrew a sheath knife and severed the fastenings. Flinging off the outer cover he unfolded the contents. A glance was sufficient and he looked up without a smile.
“Set fire to the place,” he ordered coldly.
Then he glanced down at the dead man. Felice had crawled up close to the body of her father. Her baby arms were thrust about his neck as though clinging to him for protection. Or maybe it was only in that fond baby fashion she had long since learned. Her cries had wholly ceased. Even in death the comfort of her father’s presence and proximity were all sufficient to banish her every terror.