Still I
. . . Guarding my lips with my hand I urged Dona Rita to go back to
the sofa. She wouldn't answer me and when I got hold of her arm I
discovered that she wouldn't move. She had taken root in that
thick-pile Aubusson carpet; and she was so rigidly still all over
that the brilliant stones in the shaft of the arrow of gold, with
the six candles at the head of the sofa blazing full on them,
emitted no sparkle.
I was extremely anxious that she shouldn't betray herself. I
reasoned, save the mark, as a psychologist. I had no doubt that
the man knew of her being there; but he only knew it by hearsay.
And that was bad enough. I could not help feeling that if he
obtained some evidence for his senses by any sort of noise, voice,
or movement, his madness would gain strength enough to burst the
lock. I was rather ridiculously worried about the locks. A horrid
mistrust of the whole house possessed me. I saw it in the light of
a deadly trap. I had no weapon, I couldn't say whether he had one
or not. I wasn't afraid of a struggle as far as I, myself, was
concerned, but I was afraid of it for Dona Rita. To be rolling at
her feet, locked in a literally tooth-and-nail struggle with Ortega
would have been odious.
Pages:
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424