I awoke suddenly and with a start, having, while in the act of stretching myself, brought my foot into violent contact with one of the rails of the bed. The pain arising from the blow was so acute as to put sleep out of question for a time, so I sat up in bed and stared about me; not that there was anything to be seen, not even the outlines of the window. Everything was intensely still; some hours had probably elapsed since my coming to bed, and no doubt the inmates of the house had retired long ago. The neighbourhood was a quiet one, apparently some distance removed from any main thoroughfare, as not even the noise of a passing cab or vehicle of any kind broke the silence—nothing, in fact, save the footsteps of some belated pedestrian, or, it might be, those of a policeman going his rounds.
When my foot became somewhat easier, I lay down again; but my brain was in full activity by this time, and I fell to musing over what I had seen of London during my after-dark ramble, and to building castles in the future. I was as wide awake as ever I had been in my life. As I lay thus, the black silence was broken by the faint creaking of a door, apparently that of the room next my own. Was it merely one of those unaccountable noises with which all watchers during the night season are more or less familiar, or was it caused by human agency? It was probably the cafetier or Jean stealing quietly up-stairs to bed. I had no means of even guessing the time, and instead of being asleep for hours, as I had imagined, it might not yet be much past midnight. Burglars would hardly care to visit so poor a domicile; still, it was just as well I had shot the bolt of my door before getting into bed. But, hush! what was that? Footsteps passing my door, and then softly ascending the upper flight of stairs. Some one was certainly moving about the house. But for what purpose? And now, there was the sound of more footsteps following the first. Dead silence for a few moments, and then footsteps again, but so hushed and stealthy, that it was only by holding in my breath and listening with all my might, that I could hear them at all.
What could be the meaning of proceedings so mysterious? While I was still puzzling over this question and debating with myself whether my wisest plan would not be to go to sleep and trouble myself no further in the matter, the door of some room overhead seemed suddenly to be burst open, followed immediately by a heavy trampling of feet, then a loud, sharp, inarticulate cry, a pistol-shot, the sound as it were of a brief struggle, and then nothing but the low stern tones of some one who seemed to be giving orders or instructions, and after that, a minute later, silence again the most profound. But I was out of bed by this time; and groping my way to the door, I pushed back the bolt and turned the handle, expecting, of course, that the door would open without difficulty; but it refused to yield to my efforts, and a moment or two sufficed to convince me that it was fastened from the outside. I pulled at it with all my strength, and then made out that it was held merely by a rope, which, yielding slightly to my efforts, left a space of a couple of inches between the door and the jamb. Planting one foot firmly against the wall, and pulling open the door with one hand as far as I could, I felt in my pocket with the other hand, found my knife, and opened it with my teeth; then, pushing the long sharp blade through the space between the door and the jamb, I cut through the rope that held me prisoner. A moment later, I had bounded up the stairs and had burst into one of the upper rooms, guided by a narrow fringe of light which shone from under the door. The sight that met my gaze was a strange one. The room was of considerable size; and seated on the edge of the bed, and only partially dressed, but bound and gagged, was the cafetier, while no great distance away stood a group of five men, in one of whom I at once recognised the stranger with the gold spectacles, although he wore no spectacles now; while another was Jean the waiter. The other three men I had never to my knowledge seen before. In the middle of the floor a revolver lay unheeded.
The eyes of all present turned on me like lightning, as I burst into the room. There was a moment or two of dead silence, then the stranger, whom for the future I will call M. Legros, in order to distinguish him from the others—although he was certainly not a Frenchman—strode towards me with a frown, and demanded by what right I had intruded there.
‘By the right which every man has to intrude when he hears a cry for help and believes there’s villainy afloat.’
‘Ah, bah! you talk like a child,’ he answered. ‘There is no villainy afloat here, young sir—of that you may rest assured. We are neither thieves nor assassins. What we are in nowise concerns you. Since you have chosen to intrude here, where your presence was certainly not required, you have only left one course open to me. You must take the consequences of your folly.’
He spoke a few words rapidly to the three strangers in a language unknown to me, and before I knew what was about to happen, I found myself seized, gagged, bound, and strapped down to a chair, as helpless as a new-born babe.
‘I am somewhat grieved to have to treat you thus,’ said M. Legros to me as soon as I had in some measure recovered my breath; ‘but your own rashness has put it out of my power to do otherwise. I may, however, tell you this for your comfort: no harm shall befall you, provided you obey implicitly the orders that may be imposed upon you. But should you make the slightest effort to escape before the time comes when I shall be prepared to bid you adieu, or should you endeavour to attract the attention of any one, you may rest assured that that moment will be the last of your life. I pray you to take my words in all seriousness. We are here to do a certain thing, and not a dozen lives will be allowed to stand in the way of our doing it.’
His tones were low, but very stern; his keen steel-gray eyes seemed to pierce me through. I never saw a face on which determination and strength of will were more clearly impressed. He was evidently a man who, whether for good or ill, would keep his word.
I glanced at Karavich. He was deathly pale, but his eyes glowed in their cavernous orbits with a sort of gloomy fire, and there was nothing of dismay or craven fear in the deep-seated gaze he bent now and again on his captors. Who and what was he? What was his crime? What had he done that he should be thus seized and gagged in the middle of the night in his own house and in the heart of London? Then, too, who and what were Legros and his confederates? I almost forgot my own predicament for a little while in asking myself these and similar questions.