"I never meant that," Auriole cried. "I never meant that—did I—did I? I just wanted to pay him back. I just wanted——" She bit her lower lip and choked. "What a fool I am," she gasped. "Haven't I won a millionaire out of it? What's it matter if he does suffer a bit—he wouldn't be the only one. A millionaire," she repeated, "a millionaire—the wife of a railroad king. That's worth something surely."
A couple of unruly tears trickled out of her eyes and fell on her lap. It is really too absurd that even the thought of a million pounds cannot prevent a girl from crying.
CHAPTER 18.
HOLDING OUT.
Richard Frencham Altar had a sense of humour but never before in his hitherto easy going life had he so earnestly needed it. A sense of humour in a queer abstract way provides a quality of companionship—it gives a man the power to be a pal to himself—to talk to himself aloud—to laugh at adversity—to spot the comic side in the most pathetic predicament. Each day provided something new in the matter of discomfort or alarm. The calls he was obliged to make upon his resources of humour were therefore severe and exacting. Over and over again he had need to remind himself that there was something classically funny in three financial giants demanding from him information of which he was entirely ignorant and, technically speaking, putting him on the rack in order to obtain it. The fun was grim but it existed. No one ever thought of mentioning what it was they wanted to find out—doubtless assuming that to do so was waste of time. For his own satisfaction Richard would dearly have loved to ask point blank what it was all about, but to indulge curiosity to that extent would be to imperil the safety of the cause he represented.
To keep a record of days he made a scratch on the wall paper each morning with his finger nail. There were seventeen scratches in all and he was as proud of them as an old campaigner of his medals for they stood for seventeen successful engagements. Whoever it was had charge of arranging his persecution lacked nothing in the way of imagination. Methods of destroying his repose and a course of rigorous fasting were prominent features but these were varied with details of a terrifying and sometimes abominable kind. On one occasion thirty or forty rats were introduced into his apartment where they fought and squeaked and scurried all night long. But Richard's experiences in France had robbed him of any particular fear of rats. If anything he welcomed their appearance and devoted the short periods when the light was on to shooting at them with a catapult fashioned from the elastic of a sock suspender and a piece of angle iron detached from the underside of a broken armchair. For ammunition he used a few bits of anthracite coal which he found in the sitting room grate. Altogether he accounted for seventeen before the servants arrived and deprived him of his weapon. The remainder of the rats were corralled and carried away rejoicing. This little entertainment took place during the first week of his imprisonment and served the unhappy purpose of convincing his captors that Richard's nerves were not susceptible to frivolous attacks. Thereafter they concentrated on sterner measures. Food was reduced to a minimum and frequently doped with chemicals that caused him acute internal suffering. When the pain was at its height either Van Diest, Laurence or Hipps would pay him a visit and over and over again the question would be asked.
Times out of number sheer desperation and want of sleep almost induced him to give away the secret but something inside his nature—some fourth dimensional endurance over which he appeared to have the most astounding control—checked the impulse. Often he wondered at himself and questioned how he contrived to face the pressure put upon him, but the only motive he could trace beyond the stalwart desire of every decent man to take his gruel without squealing was an ambition to be able to meet Auriole Craven's eyes squarely when she came to see him and say "I'm afraid your friends haven't got my strength just yet." She would shake her head at that and reply cynically—"It's only a matter of time, Anthony." But at the back of her eyes was a light that seemed to read "Well done you."
He was in a sad enough plight on the morning of the seventeenth day when the door opened and Van Diest followed by Laurence entered the room.
Van Diest was chanting a German hymn, a habit greatly affected by him in moments of perplexity. With thumbs tucked in his waistcoat and fingers drumming upon the resonant rotundity of his waist line he marched slowly up and down moaning the guttural words in a melancholy and tuneless voice. Richard had learned to hate that song as cordially as its performer.
"Take it down another street," he implored.