The Game Played in the Dark | Page 8

Montmorency."
"An obvious precaution. The wider course of giving you a different
street altogether we rejected as being too risky in getting you here. To
continue: To give conviction to the message you will direct your man
Parkinson to follow by the first boat-train to-morrow, with all the

requirements for a short stay, and put up at Mascot's, as usual, awaiting
your arrival there."
"Very convincing," agreed Carrados. "Where shall I be in reality?"
"In a charming though rather isolated bungalow on the south coast.
Your wants will be attended to. There is a boat. You can row or fish.
You will be run down by motor car and brought back to your own gate.
It's really very pleasant for a few days. I've often stayed there myself."
"Your recommendation carries weight. Suppose, for the sake of
curiosity, that I decline?"
"You will still go there but your treatment will be commensurate with
your behaviour. The car to take you is at this moment waiting in a
convenient spot on the other side of the park. We shall go down the
garden at the back, cross the park, and put you into the car--anyway."
"And if I resist?"
The man whose pleasantry it had been to call himself Eustace
Montmorency shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't be a fool," he said tolerantly. "You know who you are dealing
with and the kind of risks we run. If you call out or endanger us at a
critical point we shall not hesitate to silence you effectively."
The blind man knew that it was no idle threat. In spite of the cloak of
humour and fantasy thrown over the proceedings, he was in the power
of coolly desperate men. The window was curtained and shuttered
against sight and sound, the door behind him locked. Possibly at that
moment a revolver threatened him; certainly weapons lay within reach
of both his keepers.
"Tell me what to write," he asked, with capitulation in his voice.
Dompierre twirled his mustachios in relieved approval. Madame
laughed from her place on the couch and picked up a book, watching

Montmorency over the cover of its pages. As for that gentleman, he
masked his satisfaction by the practical business of placing on the table
before Carrados the accessories of the letter.
"Put into your own words the message that I outlined just now."
"Perhaps to make it altogether natural I had better write on a page of
the notebook that I always use," suggested Carrados.
"Do you wish to make it natural?" demanded Montmorency, with latent
suspicion.
"If the miscarriage of your plan is to result in my head being
knocked--yes, I do," was the reply.
"Good!" chuckled Dompierre, and sought to avoid Mr. Montmorency's
cold glance by turning on the electric table-lamp for the blind man's
benefit. Madame Dompierre laughed shrilly.
"Thank you, Monsieur," said Carrados, "you have done quite right.
What is light to you is warmth to me--heat, energy, inspiration. Now to
business."
He took out the pocket-book he had spoken of and leisurely proceeded
to flatten it down upon the table before him. As his tranquil, pleasant
eyes ranged the room meanwhile it was hard to believe that the shutters
of an impenetrable darkness lay between them and the world. They
rested for a moment on the two accomplices who stood beyond the
table, picked out Madame Dompierre lolling on the sofa on his right,
and measured the proportions of the long, narrow room. They seemed
to note the positions of the window at the one end and the door almost
at the other, and even to take into account the single pendent electric
light which up till then had been the sole illuminant.
"You prefer pencil?" asked Montmorency.
"I generally use it for casual purposes. But not," he added, touching the
point critically, "like this."

Alert for any sign of retaliation, they watched him take an insignificant
penknife from his pocket and begin to trim the pencil. Was there in his
mind any mad impulse to force conclusions with that puny weapon?
Dompierre worked his face into a fiercer expression and touched
reassuringly the handle of his knife. Montmorency looked on for a
moment, then, whistling softly to himself, turned his back on the table
and strolled towards the window, avoiding Madame Nina's pursuant
eye.
Then, with overwhelming suddenness, it came, and in its form
altogether unexpected.
Carrados had been putting the last strokes to the pencil, whittling it
down upon the table. There had been no hasty movement, no violent
act to give them warning; only the little blade had pushed itself nearer
and nearer to the electric light cord lying there . . . and suddenly and
instantly the room was plunged into absolute darkness.
"To the door, Dom!" shouted Montmorency in a flash. "I am