Presently Bothwell raised his voice and spoke again.
"We've got you, whoever you are. My friend, you'll have a sick time of it if you don't surrender without any more trouble. Do you hear me?"
He waited for an answer, and got none. I had him guessing, for it was impossible to know how many of us might be there. Moreover, there was a chance of working upon the superstition of the natives among the crew. The cook had very likely reported that he had seen a ghost.
Except a shot out of the darkness no sound had come from me since. So long as I kept silent the terror of the mystery would remain. Was I man or devil? What was it spitting death at them from the black room?
"We're going to batter that door down," went on Bothwell, "and then we're going to make you wish you'd never been born."
The voices fell again to a whispered murmur. Soon there would be a rush and the door would be torn from its hinges. I made up my mind to get Bothwell if I could before the end.
Above the mutterings came clearly a frightened soprano.
"What is it, Boris? What are you going to do?"
Evelyn had come out of her room to try to save me.
"Just getting ready to massacre your friend," her cousin answered promptly.