As if choked with words, the voice ceased for a second. Everyone in the room had turned into a statue. Only the cat was unconscious of it all. He purred loudly in his place among the cushions. And the windmill, poor thing of rusty steel, it uttered one more unearthly scream.
“Listen!” The voice was hoarse with hate. “We got you, see? Got all of you. You’ll never leave that place, see? Not one of you all! Christmas Eve. It’s a laugh!” There came a hoarse chuckle that was terrible to hear. “Hang up your stockings! Get ’em up quick! We’re coming to fill ’em, and we’ll fill ’em right with machine gun slugs! That’s how they’ll be filled!
“Good-night, everyone!” The speaker’s voice dropped to a mocking imitation of a radio announcer. “Good-night. And a Merry Christmas to all!”
For a full moment the silence in that little parlor, that through the years had witnessed so much of joy and sorrow, was profound.
“It’s a joke,” Spider said hoarsely at last.
“It’s no joke!” Drew Lane’s lips were white. “I know that voice.
“I only wish,” he said slowly, “that you ladies were out of it. Those fellows have machine guns. If they cut loose, they’ll riddle this place.”
“I’m a detective’s daughter.” Joyce Mills stood up square shouldered and slim.
“And I a slain policeman’s widow.” Madame LeClare stood up at her side.
“And I his child.” Alice was not smiling as she joined the two. There was a glint of fire in her dark eyes.