“Sure. But I won’t get seen—I hope! Off, now.”
“Off—and, luck!” said Count Godfrey as his image faded from the screen.
Back, then, through the tunnels to his temporary quarters. A journey without incident, without encounter; which was, perhaps, as well for someone. For the Arkadian, having gone so far, was grimly set to use his deadly little pistolets without parley or delay.
His first thought was for the contrivance that had let him use the “locked” door of his rooms. Dismantling it, he thus removed the only concrete evidence that he had been free to roam the Institute; free to do what had been clone that night in Master Elwyn’s office. For, he was coldly certain, when those sleepers awakened he would be under automatic suspicion. Not that he intended to be here when that awakening took place. But he reasoned—and did not trust the reasoning too much—if the only clues were that he had broken out of, not into the Institute, pursuit might then be baffled for a time.
Thus, he tore down carefully his jury-rigged circuit; and in doing so restored to normal usefulness the bed lamp that had been its power source. The room was set in order; and the clock announced that it was time to go.
One last glance round before extinguishing the lights. Then back swept the heavy amber drapes before the window; out swung the casements, creaking slightly; and over the sill and down went Duke Harald, hand over hand down a thin tough grapnel line. The dark battle cloak swirled and flapped about his booted legs. The lock-box, slung from his shoulders by a twist of cord, jarred against his back with every downward foot. And ancient ivy clutched and rasped at him with leaf and branch and clinging tendril. But his feet touched ground at last. Duke Harald released his grasp upon the rope and wheeled about; stood motionless, breathing fast, peering with slitted eyes through the darkness and the thin warm rain.
No alarm—as yet! Shrugging the awkward box to a more easeful spot between his shoulder blades, he moved off. A few lighted windows stared at him with yellow eyes. The leaves of ancient trees rustled in the falling rain as he passed noiselessly underneath. And, from the distance, the thin whine of rubber on wet pavement reached his straining ears.
The rendezvous at last, and the appointed time. Shrouded in the dark length of the battle cloak, Duke Harald merged his shadowy outline with the black bulk of a lofty elm.
He had not long to wait. The tire whine drew nearer. A gayly painted three-wheeled vehicle appeared, slowing for the corner. Duke Harald hesitated, frowned. This was no embassy car; this was a public cab!
Then the cab braked smoothly to a halt. And its roof light flickered on and off—a coded signal which Duke Harald recognized. At a dead run he left the shelter of his tree and pounded across the sidewalk. As he wrenched open the door and vaulted in beside the driver, the car surged forward into speed.