The Green Rust | Page 7

important, so was her door. There was
no doubt about it, between the edge of the door and the jamb there was
a good two inches of space, and she distinctly remembered not only
closing it, but also pushing it to make sure that it was fast. What should
she do? To her annoyance she felt a cold little feeling inside her and her
hands were trembling.
"If the lights were only on I'd take the risk," she thought; but the lights
were not on and it was necessary to pass into the dark interior and into
a darker bath-room--a room which is notoriously adaptable for
murder--before she could reach the meter.
"Rubbish, Matilda!" she scoffed quaveringly, "go in, you frightened
little rabbit--you forgot to shut the door, that's all."
She pushed the door open and with a shiver stepped inside.

Then a sound made her stop dead. It was a shuffle and a creak such as a
dog might make if he brushed against the chair.
"Who's there?" she demanded.
There was no reply.
"Who's there?"
She took one step forward and then something reached out at her. A big
hand gripped her by the sleeve of her blouse and she heard a deep
breathing.
She bit her lips to stop the scream that arose, and with a wrench tore
herself free, leaving a portion of a sleeve in the hands of the unknown.
She darted backward, slamming the door behind her. In two flying
strides she was at the door of No. 4, hammering with both her fists.
"Drunk or sober he is a man! Drunk or sober he is a man!" she muttered
incoherently.
Only twice she beat upon the door when it opened suddenly and Mr.
Beale stood in the doorway.
"What is it?"
She hardly noticed his tone.
"A man--a man, in my flat," she gasped, and showed her torn sleeve, "a
man...!"
He pushed her aside and made for the door.
"The key?" he said quickly.
With trembling fingers she extracted it from her pocket.
"One moment."

He disappeared into his own flat and presently came out holding an
electric torch. He snapped back the lock, put the key in his pocket and
then, to her amazement, he slipped a short-barrelled revolver from his
hip-pocket.
With his foot he pushed open the door and she watched him vanish into
the gloomy interior.
Presently came his voice, sharp and menacing:
"Hands up!"
A voice jabbered something excitedly and then she heard Mr. Beale
speak.
"Is your light working?--you can come hi, I have him in the
dining-room."
She stepped into the bath-room, the shilling dropped through the
aperture, the screw grated as she turned it and the lights sprang to life.
In one corner of the room was a man, a white-faced, sickly looking man
with a head too big for his body. His hands were above his head, his
lower lip trembled in terror.
Mr. Beale was searching him with thoroughness and rapidity.
"No gun, all right, put your hands down. Now turn out your pockets."
The man said something in a language which the girl could not
understand, and Mr. Beale replied in the same tongue. He put the
contents, first of one pocket then of the other, upon the table, and the
girl watched the proceedings with open eyes.
"Hello, what's this?"
Beale picked up a card. Thereon was scribbled a figure which might
have been 6 or 4.

"I see," said Beale, "now the other pocket--you understand English, my
friend?"
Stupidly the man obeyed. A leather pocket-case came from an inside
pocket and this Beale opened.
Therein was a small packet which resembled the familiar wrapper of a
seidlitz powder. Beale spoke sharply in a language which the girl
realized was German, and the man shook his head. He said something
which sounded like "No good," several times.
"I'm going to leave you here alone for awhile," said Beale, "my friend
and I are going downstairs together--I shall not be long."
They went out of the flat together, the little man with the big head
protesting, and she heard their footsteps descending the stairs. Presently
Beale came up alone and walked into the sitting-room. And then the
strange unaccountable fact dawned on her--he was perfectly sober.
His eyes were clear, his lips firm, and the fair hair whose tendencies to
bedragglement had emphasized his disgrace was brushed back over his
head. He looked at her so earnestly that she grew embarrassed.
"Miss Cresswell," he said quietly. "I am going to ask you to do me a
great favour."
"If it is one that I can grant, you may be sure that I will," she smiled,
and he nodded.
"I shall not ask you to do anything that is impossible in spite of the
humorist's