I began to have again that bitter rage in my heart that had been in it twenty years before, and had meant the death of a man. I found myself saying, over and over again, as I sat bound and helpless, that this man should die, no matter what the penalty might be—that I would wipe him off the face of the fair earth on which he crawled, and would leave the way clear for this new Barbara, and for the boy who had striven bravely to carry the flag I once had borne. Nothing could happen to me worse than had already happened; I felt in that hour almost as though God had brought me from my prison, and set me here to do this thing. And I had been chosen because no worse evil could befall me than I had already suffered; I had touched the depths, and could go no lower. Yes, I was a thing apart, and the way before me was as clear as it had been twenty years before.
I set to work systematically to free myself of my bonds. Getting to my feet, I stumbled stiffly towards the dressing-table in the room, and on the sharp edge at one corner of it began to saw the towel that held me, backwards and forward, until I had torn a hole in it. After that I worked frantically—up and down and across and across—until I felt it giving in places, and until I had torn a great jagged hole in it. It took a long time, but presently I was able to feel that the towel was gradually giving way; then at last, as I worked, I was suddenly flung forward, as the last strand started, and my hands fell to my sides. The rest was an easy matter, and I was presently able to get rid of my gag.
The door was locked, and I dared not break it down; I did not know whether Olivant was still in the house. I pulled back the curtain at the window, and looked out, after first extinguishing the light in the room. The room was on the first floor, and the drop to the ground not an alarming one; I crawled on to the broad window-ledge, and worked myself over it, gripping with my hands. After hanging there for a moment I let go, and dropped, and fell without damage to the ground below.
At first I did not know what to do. On an impulse I was for setting out for the woods, there to find Arnold Millard, and acquaint him with what had happened. But in the very act of doing that I drew back, trembling; for I seemed to know what must inevitably happen then. Living, as I seemed to do, in the intimate thoughts and hopes and hatreds of the boy, I knew that what must happen would be an encounter between Murray Olivant and the younger man; and whatever punishment must be meted out to Olivant must, I felt, be left to me, and not to the boy. Before I stirred at all in the matter I must have time to think, and I must, above all, find out whether Murray Olivant was still in the house.
I could not, of course, get into the house again in the ordinary way; I must needs creep about the grounds, and watch. I went round to the terrace, and drew near enough to look in at the windows, and to see Lucas Savell sitting alone in the room, with his hands folded on his lap, and his head nodding to slumber. I tried gently to unfasten one of the long French windows, but in vain; and I was just turning away, when I saw him wake up, and shake his head, and blink his eyelids, and look about him. I saw him go to the door of the room, and apparently call out to some one in the house; then come back, closing the door after him. He made straight for the windows, and I was only just in time to draw back out of the way. After fumbling for a moment or two with the fastenings, he got the window open, and called out into the dark garden—
"Barbara! Barbara! What's become of you?"
There was no answer, and he stood for a moment fretfully muttering to himself. I was so close to him that I heard him say that no one ever attended to his wants, and that he was a poor neglected creature, and he wished that he was dead. While he stood there, the door of the room was opened, and Olivant came in.
"What are you bawling about?" I heard him ask.
Savell turned away from the window, leaving it open. "I want Barbara," he said peevishly. "She knows I want her at this time; there are lots of things she has to attend to that no one else can attend to. I'm actually left here—a poor invalid—with nothing to drink. It's a shame!"
"You're not likely to see your precious Barbara again—at all events for a long time," said Murray Olivant, leaning against a table, and looking at the other man. "So make up your mind to that."