Vicky did not answer. Her eyes were meeting his and the blood crept into her cheeks. There was a furtive sinister menace between his narrowed lips that reminded her of a wolf creeping toward its kill. She looked away, her heart hammering fast. What sort of a creature was this man with whom she was locked up a million miles away from all the safeguards of society? In the glowing coals she found no answer to that question.
Presently she stole a sidelong look at him. He was pouring a drink from the whisky bottle.
“How?” he said, lifting the glass toward her. He tilted back his hairy throat and drained the tumbler.
A heavy pounding on the door startled the drinker. He listened.
Victoria was at the door instantly. She flung it open. A man lurched forward and crumpled up on the floor.
CHAPTER XXIII
TWO PLUS ONE MAKES THREE
With a swift movement of her supple body Vicky was on her knees beside the man. She slipped an arm under his head. Icy sleet encrusted his clothes. It clung in icicles to his hair and eyebrows. It matted his lashes and small Vandyke beard.
From her throat came an astonished little cry of recognition. The man was Hugh McClintock. Over her shoulder she called to the big man at the table.
“Bring me whisky and water—please.”