“I will.” He said fiercely, “You both stand in my way. I brought you here last night to get rid of you. I came into this room some minutes ago to carry out my plan. I was going to kill you both with an anaesthetic. Then the Baronne came in, threatening to wake you if I tried to do what I had said I should. I felt you touch me in the dark, I knew we had awakened you, and at once seized you—the Baronne held your throat to prevent your calling out. Then Faulkner sprang up and turned on the light and—”
He paused, listening. There had been another cry for help, barely audible even in the stillness of the night. He glanced at his companion. She too had heard it.
They looked meaningly at each other, but neither moved to leave the room. The cry had sounded so piteous that I should myself have rushed out to ascertain whence it came. Was it Vera’s voice? Paulton was near the door, and to have passed him would have been impossible.
Was it my Vera? The thought held me in a frenzy.
“There is only one way,” he went on, as though nothing had happened, “for you to regain your liberty. I should not offer even this, had not the Baronne persuaded me to against my better judgment.”
“What is the way?”
“You must never attempt to see Vera again. And you, Faulkner, must write at once to Gladys Deroxe and break off your engagement. It is the only alternative. Do you both agree?”
Neither of us answered. The suggestion was a childlike one.
“Is there no other way?” I asked at last in order to gain time.
“None.”