“One can’t see him. The angle of the house hides him. But he’s up there all right.”
“Very well. You two men dispose of that body; Castelli, you run back a bit and see if you can see him.”
Hugh realized that, where he lay flat on the snow-covered roof, he was an easy mark. A belated moon gleaming through the cloud-fleece, would direct their aim. On the other side of the house was darkness and the protection of the stream. He must gain that. Keeping his feet in the gutter he worked along the roof till he came to the end of it, then gripping the slate edge, desperately he pulled himself up until he was astride of the ridge.
A shot whistled past him. That would never do. Castelli could pick him off as he crouched low on the ridge. He allowed his body to slip a little way down the side next to the stream. Thus hidden from them, half embedded in the snow, he clutched desperately at the angle of the ridge and waited. What would they do next?
Everything was very quiet, a quiet full of menace. Beyond a doubt they were carrying out some fresh scheme. The suspense was too great to be borne; he must know at all costs what they were doing. With a great effort he drew himself up and peered over.
He saw a sight that filled him with terror and despair ... the head and shoulders of Gamba, appearing over the edge of the roof. Stealthy and catlike the little man was climbing with no apparent effort. Now he was sliding like a monkey along the gutter, now he was drawing himself up to the peak, now he was astride the ridge. Hugh stared into his black vindictive eyes, saw his lips parted in that grin of incredible evil, the revolver held ready in his hand.
“Don’t shoot, Gamba,” he heard the doctor say from below. “Get him alive. Make him come down.”
Gamba bent over and seized Hugh by the arm; behind the pointed pistol, his eyes glittered malignantly.
“Come,” he hissed.
With a sudden wrench Hugh freed himself from the hand that gripped him, and as he did so, he felt himself sliding. He clutched desperately at the angle of the roof, but in vain. The snow on which he lay was slipping, slipping. Gamba clawed at him frantically. Too late! the whole snow mass crashed down like a miniature avalanche. Helpless, turning over in the descent, Hugh went with it, down, down over the edge of the roof into the black depths below....