With a twist of her forearm she tried to break away. His rough fingers crushed deeper into her soft flesh.
“You in a hurry, sweetheart?” he went on, and his heavy body shook with unholy mirth. “Afraid of old Sam’s winnin’ ways? Don’t like to trust yore feelin’s with them, I reckon.”
“Let me go,” she ordered, and her voice shook.
Instantly his mood changed. He thrust his hairy gorilla-like head close to hers. “When I get good an’ ready, missie. Think you can boss Sam Dutch, do you? Think I’ve forgot how you shot me onct when I took you in outa the storm? Think I care for yore cry-baby ways? You’ll do jest like I say.”
“I’m going home. Don’t you dare stop me.” She could not make her quavering voice quite as confident as she would have liked.
“Home. So you’re going home?” His slow thoughts struck another tangent. “Good enough. I’ll trail along an’ see you get there safe, missie. Like to say ‘How-d’ye-do’ to Colonel McClintock whilst I’m there.” His teeth uncovered in a snarl of rage.
Vicky’s fears for herself fled, swallowed up in the horror of a picture struck to life by her imagination. She saw Scot lying helpless on his bed with this ruffian gloating over him. A flash of memory carried her back to another scene. This time it was Hugh who lay at the ruffian’s mercy—Hugh spent and all but senseless, his muscles paralyzed by the cold of the blizzard that raged outside.
A week before this Scot had been moved from the hotel to a small private house put at the family’s disposal by friends who were temporarily in California. He and Mollie would be alone. She dared not lead the killer to the house. What ought she to do?
The killer now knew what was the first thing he meant to do. He would go and finish the job he had left undone some weeks earlier.
“Home it is, m’dear. Hot foot it. I got no time to waste. Where do you live?”