Chapter 11: One Way in.

I heard her fumbling with her pocket.

“I can’t find the thing; I had it just now; I can’t have dropped it.”

“Oh, Pollie! Quick! they’re at the wall!”

There was a scraping noise from behind; a muffled whispering. It sounded as if someone was endeavouring to negotiate the obstacle we had just surmounted. Still Pollie was continuing her researches.

“Where can I have put the thing?”

“Can’t you find it? Oh, Pollie!”

Someone was on the wall; had dropped softly to the ground. The sound of his alighting feet was distinctly audible. There was a pause, as if for someone to follow. It was the pause which saved us. As I waited, with my heart actually banging against my ribs, my legs giving way at the knees, expecting every second that someone would come darting at us through the darkness, just in time to save me from toppling in a heap on to the ground Pollie found the key.

“I’ve got it! What did uncle say I was to do with it? Push it against the spot of light—and then? I’ve got it into the keyhole; can’t you remember what uncle said I was to do with it then? It turns round and round.”

“Pollie!—they’re coming!”

They were. There was the sound of advancing footsteps. Approaching forms loomed dimly through the darkness. That same instant Pollie caught the trick of it; the door opened.

“Inside!” she gasped.

I was inside, moving faster than I had ever done in my life before. And Pollie was after me. The door shut behind us, seemingly of its own accord, with a kind of groan.

“That was a near thing!”

It could hardly have been nearer. Whoever was upon our heels had almost effected a simultaneous entrance with ourselves.

“He made a grab at my skirt; I felt his hand!”

But the door had closed so quickly that whoever was there had had no time to make an attempt to keep it open. It was pitch dark within, darker almost than it had been without. Pollie pressed close to my side. The fingers of one of her hands interlaced themselves with mine; she gripped me tighter than she perhaps thought. Her lips were near my ear; she spoke as if she were short of breath.

“There’s a good spring upon that door; it moved a bit too fast for them; it shuts like a rat-trap. Listen!”

There was no need to bid me to do that; already my sense of hearing was on the strain. Someone, apparently, was trying the door; to see if it was really shut; or if it could not be induced to open again.

There were voices in whispered consultation.

“There’s more than one; I wondered if there was more than one.”

“There are three,” I said.

Presently someone struck the door lightly, with the palm of the hand, or with the fist. Then, more forcibly, a rain of blows. Unless I was mistaken, the assault came from more than one pair of hands; it was like an attack made in the impotence of childish passion. The voices were raised, as if they called to us. They were like none which either of us had ever heard before; there was a curious squeakiness about them, as if their natural tone was a falsetto. What they said was gibberish to us; it was uttered in an unknown tongue. The voices ceased. After an interval, during which, one suspected, their owners had withdrawn a step or two to consider the situation, one was raised alone. It had in it a threatening quality, as if it warned us of the pains and penalties we were incurring. The fact that we were being addressed in a language which was, to us, completely strange, seemed at that moment to have about it something dreadful. Audibly, we paid no heed. Only I felt Pollie’s grip growing tighter and tighter. I wondered if she knew that she would crush my fingers if she did not take care.

The single speaker ceased to hurl at us his imprecations. I felt sure it was bad language he was using. All was still.

“What are they doing?”

So close were Pollie’s lips her whispered words tickled my ear. We had not long to wait before the answer came—in the shape of a smashing blow directed against the door.