AN INTRUDER
“It’s all right,” she heard in a breathless whisper. “Go back to your room. It’s nothin’.”
But having ventured thus far she did not hesitate, and closing the door behind her came forward. Upon the floor, half against the wall, was the figure of a man. Cyril was sitting on his legs and holding him with one hand by the neck cloth.
“You’re safe?” she whispered.
“Yes. Go back to bed. Don’t you understand—if anyone came?”
“I don’t care.” Her curiosity had triumphed. She leaned forward and saw that it was John Rizzio.
“Rizzio!” she whispered. “My room!”
“I ought to kill him, Doris,” said Cyril savagely, “but I’ve only choked him a little. He’ll come around in a minute.” And then more quietly: “Get me a glass of water, but don’t make a fuss, and don’t make a light. There are men outside.”
She obeyed, and in a moment Rizzio revived and sat up, Cyril standing over him, his fist clenched.
“Oh, let him go, Cyril, please,” Doris pleaded.
At the sound of the girl’s voice Rizzio started and with Cyril’s help struggled to his feet.
“Yes, he’s going the way he came—by the window,” growled Hammersley. “Head first, if I have my way.”
Rizzio succeeded in a smile, though he was still struggling for breath.
“I suppose—I—I must thank you for your generosity, Hammersley,” he said with as fine a return of his composure as his throat permitted. “I have been guilty of—of an error in judgment”
“I’m sorry you think it’s only that,” said Cyril dryly. “Now go,” he whispered threateningly, pointing to the window.
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