“Damn you — tell me what you did with her!”
“Silly and weak and stupid,” Stoles mused. “To think that my own brothers and I could create nothing better than you. Well, you shall pay for it. The Bird is cruel!”
At his last emphatic remark he covered his face briefly. The others present followed his motions; someone reached out and clapped a hand roughly over Randall’s eyes, then took it away.
Stoles was speaking again; Randall tried to interrupt him — once again Stoles thrust a finger at him and said sternly, “Enough!” Randall found himself unable to talk; his throat choked up and nauseated him whenever he tried it.
“One would suppose,” Stoles continued urbanely, “that even one of your poor sort would understand the warning you were given, and heed it.” Stoles stopped for a moment and shoved out his lips, pressing them tightly together. “I sometimes think that my only weakness lies in not realizing the full depths of the weakness and stupidity of men. As a reasonable creature myself I seem to have an unfortunate tendency to expect others unlike myself to be reasonable.”
He stopped and turned his attention away from Randall and toward one of his colleagues. “Don’t raise up any false hopes, Mr. Parker,” he said, smiling sweetly. “I do not underrate you. And if you should wish to wrestle for my right to sit where I sit, I shall oblige you — later. I wonder,” he added thoughtfully, “what your blood tastes like.”
Mr. Parker was equally courteous. “Much the same as yours, Mr. Chairman, I imagine. It’s a pleasant idea, but I am satisfied with the present arrangements.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I like you, Mr. Parker; I had hoped you were ambitious.”
“I am patient — like our Ancestor.”
“So? Well — back to business. Mr. Randall, I tried before to impress you with the necessity of having nothing to do with — your client. You know the client I mean. What do you think would impress you with the fact that the Sons of the Bird will tolerate no interference with their plans? Speak up — tell me.”
Randall had heard little of what had taken place and had understood none of it. His whole being was engrossed with a single terrible thought. When he found he could speak again, it spilled forth. “Where is she?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “What have you done with her?”
Stoles gestured impatiently. “Sometimes,” he said pettishly, “it is almost impossible to get into communication with one of them — almost no mind at all. Mr. Phipps!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will you please see that the other one is fetched in?”
“Certainly, Mr. Stoles.” Phipps gathered up an assistant with his eye; the two left the room to return shortly with a burden which they dumped casually on the table beside Randall. It was Cynthia.
The surge of relief was almost more than he could stand. It roared through him, choking him, deafening him, blinding him with tears, and leaving him nothing with which to weigh the present danger of their situation. But gradually the throbbing of his being slowed down enough for him to see that something was wrong; she was quiet. Even if she had been asleep when they carried her in, the rough handling she had received should have been enough to waken her.
His alarm was almost as devastating as his joy had been. “What have you done to her?” he begged. “Is she — ”
“No,” Stoles answered in disgusted tones, “she is not dead. Control yourself, Mr. Randall.” With a wave of his hand he directed his colleagues, “Wake her up.”
One of them poked her in the ribs with a forefinger. “Don’t bother to wrap it,” he remarked; “I’ll eat it on the way.”
Stoles smiled. “Very witty, Mr. Printemps — but I said to wake her up. Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Certainly, Mr. Chairman.” He slapped her stingingly across the face; Randall felt it on his own face — in his helpless condition it almost unhinged his reason. “In the Name of the Bird — wake up!”
He saw her chest heave under the silk of her nightgown; her eyes fluttered and she said one word, “Teddy?”