"Oh, my God!" he groaned.
Terror claimed him—the terror which he had with difficulty been fending off throughout that nightmare interview with Fo-Hi. Madness threatened him, and he was seized by an almost incontrollable desire to shout execrations—prayers—he knew not what. He clenched his teeth grimly and tried to think, to plan.
He had two chances:
The statement left with Inspector Dunbar, in which he had mentioned the existence of a house "near Hampton Court," and … Miska.
That she was one of the two exceptions mentioned by Fo-Hi he felt assured. But was she in this house, and did she know of his presence there? Even so, had she access to that room of mysteries—of horrors?
And who was the other who remained? Almost certainly it was the fanatical Hindu, Chunda Lal, of whom she had spoken with such palpable terror and who watched her unceasingly, untiringly. He would prevent her intervening even if she had power to intervene.
His great hope, then, was in Dunbar … for Gaston Max was dead.
At the coming of that thought, the foul doing to death of the fearless Frenchman, he gnashed his teeth savagely and strained at the gyves until the pain in his ankles brought out beads of perspiration upon his forehead.
He dropped his head into his hands and frenziedly clutched at his hair with twitching fingers.
The faint sound occasioned by the opening of one of the sliding doors brought him sharply upright.