“That will be seen,” sneered Mr. Nichol.
“Not by a damned blind scarlet-faced porpoise!” screamed Mary, apparently more in a passion than ever, and a burst of laughter came from the men.
This was too much for Mr. Nichol. This coarse abuse stung him cruelly.
“God’s blood,” he bellowed at the room; “take this vixen out and search the place.” And a torrent of oaths drove the crowd about the door out into the passage again.
A couple of men took Mary by the fierce ringed hands of hers that still twitched and clenched, and led her out; she spat insults over her shoulders as she went. But she had held him in talk as she intended.
“Now then,” roared Nichol again, “search, you dogs!”
He himself went outside too, and seeing the stairs stamped up them. He was just in time to see the Tacitus settle down with crumpled pages; stopped for a moment, bewildered, for it lay in the middle of the passage; and then rushed at the open door on the left, dashed it open, and found a little empty room, with a chair or two, and a table—but no sign of the priest. It was like magic.
Then out he came once more, and went into Anthony’s own room. The great bed was on his right, the window opposite, the fireplace to the left, and in the middle lay two sooty shoes. Instinctively he bent and touched them, and found them warm; then he sprang to the door, still keeping his face to the room, and shouted for help.
“He is here, he is here!” he cried. And a thunder of footsteps on the stairs answered him.