Harleston handed the maid his hat, stick, and gloves, and crossed the
private hall into the drawing-room.
As he passed the doorway, a heavy silk handkerchief was flung around his
neck from behind, and instantly tightened over his larynx; at the same
time his arms were pinioned to his side. He could neither make a sound
nor raise a hand. He was being garroted. At his first struggle the
garrote was twisted; it was be quiet or be strangled. And, queer as it
may seem, his first thought was of the garroters of India and the
instant helplessness of their victims. In fact, so immediate was his
helplessness, that it sapped all will to be otherwise than quiescent.
"Two can play at this game, Mr. Harleston," said a familiar voice, and
Crenshaw stepped out in front. "I'm in a better humour now, and more my
natural self; I was somewhat peeved in the Collingwood--due to late
hours, I think. By the way, it isn't an especially pleasant game for the
fellow who is it, Mr. Harleston? I'll take your answer for granted--or
we'll let my distinguished colleague answer for you--you know Mr.
Sparrow, sir?" as the man with the garrote put his head over Harleston's
shoulder. "Answer for Mr. Harleston will you, Sparrow?"
"No, it is not, Mr.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104