But this is a romance of the present day, the age of nerves and high velocity. Barbara Mackwayte, strong and plucky as she was, after being half throttled and violently thrown into the cellar of the Dyke Inn, suddenly gave way under the strain and conveniently evaded facing the difficulties of her position by fainting clear away.
The precise moment when she came out of her swoon she never knew. The cellar was dark; but it was nothing compared to the darkness enveloping her mind. She lay there on the damp and mouldy straw, hardly able, scarcely wanting, to move, overwhelmed by the extraordinary adventure which had befallen her. Was this to be the end of the pleasant trip into the country on which she had embarked so readily only a few hours before? She tried to remember that within twenty miles of her were policemen and taxis and lights and all the attributes of our present day civilization; but her thoughts always returned, with increasing horror, to that undersized yellow-faced man in the room above, to the face of Nur-el-Din, dark and distorted with passion.
A light shining down the cellar stairs drew her attention to the entrance. The woman she had already seen and in whom she now recognized Marie, the dancer’s maid, was descending, a tray in her hand. She placed the tray on the ground without a word, then went up the stairs again and fetched the lamp. She put the lamp down by the tray and, stooping, cut the ropes that fastened Barbara’s hands and feet.
“So, Mademoiselle,” she said, drawing herself erect with a grunt, “your supper: some tea and meat!”
She pulled a dirty deal box from a corner of the cellar and put the tray upon it. Then she rose to her feet and sat down. The maid watched Barbara narrowly while she ate a piece of bread and drank the tea.
“At least,” thought Barbara to herself, “they don’t mean to starve me!”
The tea was hot and strong; and it did her good. It seemed to clear her faculties, too; for her brain began to busy itself with the problem of escaping from her extraordinary situation.
“Mademoiselle was a leetle too clevaire,” said the maid with an evil leer,—“she would rob Madame, would she? She would play the espionne, hein? Eh bien, ma petite, you stay ’ere ontil you say what you lave done wiz ze box of Madame!”
“Why do you say I have stolen the box?” protested Barbara, “when I tell you I know nothing of it. It was stolen from me by the man who killed my father. More than that I don’t know. You don’t surely think I would conspire to kill” her voice trembled—“my father, to get possession of this silver box that means nothing to me!”
Marie laughed cynically.