His voice came huskily, pantingly:
"Creep along and lend me a hand, Petrie! I am nearly winded."
I crept through the window, steadied my quivering nerves by an effort
of the will, and reached the end of the ledge in time to take Smith's
extended hand and to draw him up beside me against the wall of the
tower. He was shaking with his exertions, and must have fallen, I
think, without my assistance. Inside the room again--
"Quick! light the candles!" he breathed hoarsely. "Did any one come?"
"No one--nothing."
Having expended several matches in vain, for my fingers twitched
nervously, I ultimately succeeded in relighting the candles.
"Get along to your room!" directed Smith. "Your apprehensions are
unfounded at the moment, but you may as well leave both doors wide
open!"
I looked into his face--it was very drawn and grim, and his brow was
wet with perspiration, but his eyes had the fighting glint, and I knew
that we were upon the eve of strange happenings.
CHAPTER XXIII
A CRY ON THE MOOR
Of the events intervening between this moment and that when death
called to us out of the night, I have the haziest recollections. An
excellent dinner was served in the bleak and gloomy dining-room by
the mulatto, and the crippled author was carried to the head of the
table by this same herculean attendant, as lightly as though he had
had but the weight of a child.
Van Roon talked continuously, revealing a deep, knowledge of all sorts
of obscure matters; and in the brief intervals, Nayland Smith talked
also, with almost feverish rapidity.
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