Chapter Twenty-four

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Lois Reddle woke from a heavy sleep, feeling ravenously hungry. She got off the bed, and, putting on her shoes, walked to the window. The prospect was a dreary one. She saw the farmyard into which she had driven that morning, and recognised the slatternly woman who was feeding the chickens as the janitress who had opened the door. Beyond the discoloured wall was the slope of a treeless down, and, by getting close to the pane and looking sideways, she could see no more than a further fold of the hills, surmounted by a black copse.

She felt refreshed when she had bathed her face and hands, but the pangs of hunger had grown more poignant, and she went to the door and turned the handle. It did not budge; the door was locked. The window sash, she found, only opened a few inches, but it was sufficient to call to the woman in the yard, and presently she attracted her attention, for she waved her hand impatiently and went on feeding the chickens. Then, after a few minutes, she went out of the girl’s line of vision. It was some time before her heavy tread sounded on the stairs, and obviously the locked door was no accident, for, when the woman came in carrying a tray, the key was hanging from a chain fastened to her waist.

“Please do not lock the door again,” said Lois, as she surveyed the very plain fare with some appreciation.

“You get on with your eating and never mind about the door,” was the unexpected reply.

Lois was left in no doubt as to the woman’s hostility and wisely did not continue the argument. Then, to her amazement, as the woman went out of the room she turned the key again. Lois ran to the door and hammered on the panels.

“Unlock this door,” she said, but there was no reply save the sound of the dour attendant’s footsteps on the stairs, and the girl went slowly back to her meal to confront a new problem.

The appetite of youth was not to be denied, and when she had finished her meal some of her confidence and poise had returned. It was impossible that they could be keeping her prisoner; she scoffed at the idea. Possibly the locking of the door was the act of an over-zealous custodian who was to keep her safe from--she shook her head. Not from Michael Dorn. Whatever views the countess might have of him, however unforgivable had been his behaviour, he was not vindictive, nor would he pursue her in any spirit of revenge. That was the greatest impossibility of all.

She tried the door again; it was undoubtedly locked. And then, in a spirit of self-preservation, she attempted to open the window, and found that two slats of wood had been so screwed as to make it impossible for the sash to rise or fall more than a few inches. The other window had been similarly dealt with. She was examining this when she saw the doctor in the yard. He wore his rusty frock coat, but he was collarless, and on his head was an old golf cap.

Walking with unsteady steps to the gate through which she had come, and which was open, with some difficulty he closed it. She needed no special knowledge of human weakness to see that he had been drinking more than was good for him, for his gait was unsteady, and when, turning back to the house, he saw her, and yelled a greeting, it was interrupted by a hiccough.

“Had a good sleep, young friend?” he shouted. “Has that old hag brought your lunch?”

“Doctor”--she spoke through the slit of the sash--“can’t I come down? She has locked me in.”

“Locked you in?” The statement seemed to afford him some amusement, for he rocked with laughter. “Well, well, fancy locking you in! She must be afraid of you, my dear. Don’t you worry, you’re all right. I’ll look after you. You’ve heard no voices, have you? Seen nobody following you around, eh? You’ll be all right in a day or two.”

His words filled her with apprehension. Once before, at the luncheon where she had met him, he had spoken about mysterious voices and people following her. Did he think she was mad? She went cold at the thought. Going to the door, she waited for him to come up the stairs, but there was no sound from below, only a soft patter of feet, and presently something snuffled under the door and there was a low growl. The woman’s harsh voice called from the passage.

“Bati, Bati, _hitherao_! Come down, you black _soor_!”

She heard the animal running down the stairs, there was the sound of a smack and a sharp yelp. Later, she saw the dogs--there were two of them--in the yard. Great black beasts, bigger than Alsatians, but lacking their fineness. They were prowling about, nosing into stable refuse. One of them saw her, growled and showed his fangs, the bristles stiff, and she hastily drew out of sight. She knocked again on the door, stamped on the floor, but attracted no attention, and though she heard the doctor’s voice and called to him he ignored her. Her situation was a dangerous one, and she began to understand dimly the reason for Dorn’s drastic action.

Where she was she could not guess. So much of the country as she could see had no meaning for her; and, except that her window faced northward, she was unable to locate her position.

The woman brought her up some more tea in the afternoon--vile stuff beside which Lizzy Smith’s concoctions were veritable nectar.

“I insist that you leave this door open,” said the girl.

“They’d tear you to pieces if I did,” said the woman. “There is no holding them with strangers. Hark at Bati now!”

There was a snuffling and growling outside the door.

“Go away, you! _Juldi_!” she cried shrilly in her queer mixture of English and Hindustani.

The girl faced her.

“I am not afraid of dogs,” said Lois steadily, and walked to the door.

Before she was half-way the woman had overtaken her, and, catching her by the arm, had swung her round.

“You’ll stay where you are, and do as you’re told, or it will be worse for you,” she said threateningly.

“Where is the doctor? I wish to see him.”

“You can’t see any doctor. He’s gone down to the village to get a drink.”

She kicked away the dogs that strove to get through the half-open door, closed and locked it, and for half an hour Lois sat before her untasted meal, trying to think. The light was fading in the sky when there came the second dramatic interruption of that day.

Lois was standing by the window, looking into the dreary yard and thinking of Michael Dorn. He had certainly become a bright nucleus of hope. Michael Dorn would not fail her; wherever she was, he would follow. Why she should think this, she could not understand. Why he should give his time and his thoughts to her protection, was a mystery yet to be solved. But he was working for her--working for her now. It was a comforting thought; she almost forgot her fears.

Then from the yard below came the screaming voice of the gaunt woman.

“I told you to wash those dishes, didn’t I? Never mind what you’re doing; when I give you an order you carry it out, you old gaol-bird.”

“Why am I kept here?” Another voice spoke sweet and soft. Lois trembled at the sound. “He told me that----”

“Never mind what he told you,” shrilled the other. “Wash those dishes, and then you can scrub the floor; and if it is not done in half an hour I’ll put you in the cellar with the rats or give you to the dogs, and they’ll tear you to pieces! Hi, Bati! Mali!”

There was a harsh growl from the dogs and a clanking of chains.

“I refuse”--again the gentle voice--“I refuse!”

_Crack!_

“Refuse that! Give me any trouble and I’ll whip you till you bleed. Ah, you would, would you?”

There was the sound of a struggle and the horrified girl, craning her neck, saw a frail woman stumble and fall to the ground, saw the cruel whip rise and fall----

“Stop!” cried Lois hoarsely, and at that instant, as the old hag stooped over the stricken woman and jerked her out of view, the knees of Lois Reddle gave beneath her and she fell to the floor in a swoon.