Citadel of Fear | Page 7

was the thing that troubled Archer Kennedy. That it was
neither American, Norwegian, nor Spanish he was ready to take oath.
Her appearance, too, had a vague hint of something different from any
white woman he had ever seen. Yet surely no dark blood flowed in
those pink-nailed hands, nor behind such rose-leaf cheeks.
Dismissing the problem as immaterial, he returned to his host.
CHAPTER II
The Moth Girl

"MR. KENNEDY, we should go early to bed, for I think we'll be
leaving the morn just so soon as we can barrow or buy means of
travel."
Rising, Boots cast away his brown leaf-cigarette with an impatient
gesture.
It was now nine in the evening, and for half an hour, following another
picked-up meal eaten by the three men alone together, they had sat in
silence.
During that afternoon and evening Biornson's embarrassment had taken
refuge in a distinct coldness and reserve. Their questions he put aside,
or calmly left unanswered, but there was a worried line between his
brows and he had developed a speculative, tight-tipped and
narrow-eyed way of watching his guests which made it clear to him
they were a Problem with a capital P.
Boots, who possessed more worldly knowledge than his years or
careless manner would indicate, began to look speculative himself.
Men with secrets to keep sometimes dispose of their Problems in an
unpleasantly summary manner, and certainly this ravine was secret.

To believe that such a vivid jewel in the barren Collados del Demonio
had been kept from knowledge of the world by accident was folly. In
the common course of events, the plantation would have been famed if
only for its isolation.
By what means and for what reason had Biornson prevented the
spreading of its repute? From the first they had sensed something
wrong in the ravine. As time passed, and their host's peculiar manner
became more and more emphatic, they began to believe that nothing
was right.
At Boots' half-irritated suggestion, Biornson rose with suspicious
alacrity, and Kennedy could do less than follow suit, though he
scowled in the darkness. For hours he had been waiting with the
patience of a cat at a rat-hole for their host to let slip some careless
word or phrase that would give him the key to a possibly profitable
mystery. But he and young Boots were an ill-matched couple, and he
was more annoyed than surprised that his watch should be put an end to
by the latter's impatience.
Having for the second time escorted them to their gallery beds,
Biornson handed the small triple candelabra he had brought to Boots
and bade them a brief good night. Then he closed the heavy door
behind them and a second later there came certain unmistakable sounds
from outside, followed by the unhurried footsteps of their departing
host.
With an oath Kennedy sprang for the door and wrenched vainly at the
handle. As his ears had already informed him, it was locked and not
only that but bolted.
With the sudden frenzy of the trapped, he kicked it, beat at it with his
hands; then, with the same furious and futile energy, sprang across the
room and attacked the solid wooden shutters which, though he had not
at first observed them, were closed when they entered.
Still holding the candelabra, Boots stood near the middle of the room
and watched his companion from under drawn, troubled brows. After a

moment he set down the candles, took one stride forward, and grasping
Kennedy by the shoulder forced him away and into a wicker armchair.
"That's no way to behave," he said reprovingly. "D'ye want to be
frightening Mrs. Biornson with your bangings and your yells like a he
banshee? Your throat's not cut yet, nor like to be."
"You young fool!" snarled the other. "Shall we sit here quiet till they do
it? Use that big body of yours to some purpose and help me break out
before that cursed brigand comes back!"
"He'll not come back."
"How do you know?"
"'Tis not reasonable he should. For why would he entertain us all day,
herd us off alone with himself for watchman, keep his wife and bit
child from our company lest they drop some word to betray them, and
he plotting to murder us the night? All the hours we lay sleeping
here--why, a bit of a knife-thrust would have just as well settled the
business then. Better, for he's put us on guard now with this foolishness
of locked doors and barred shutters."
"Murderers are not logical." Kennedy's first flurry of rage and fear was
past, and a cold hatred for the man who had imprisoned them was
replacing it. "You were fool enough to let him know we have money in
our belts. You