“Now,” thought Randall. “It’s got to be now.” Summoning all the will he possessed he attempted to raise himself up from the table — rise up and fight!
He might just as well not have made the effort.
He let his head sink back, exhausted by the effort. “It’s no use, kid,” he said miserably.
Cynthia looked at him. If she felt any fear, it was masked by the concern she showed for him. “Chin up, Brain,” she answered with the mere suggestion of increased pressure of her hand in his.
Printemps stood up and leaned over her. “This is properly Potiphar’s job,” he objected.
“He left a prepared bottle,” Stoles answered. “You have it, Mr. Phipps?”
Phipps answered by reaching into his brief case and producing it. At a nod from Stoles he passed it over; Printemps accepted it. “The wax?” he added.
“Here you are,” Phipps acknowledged, dipping into his brief case again.
“Thank you, sir. Now, if someone will get that out of the way” — indicating Randall as he spoke — “we seem to be ready.” Half a dozen savagely willing hands manhandled Randall to the extreme far edge of the table; Printemps bent over Cynthia, bottle in hand.
“One moment,” Stoles interrupted. “I want them both to understand what is happening and why. Mrs. Randall,” he continued, bowing gallantly, “in our short interview earlier I believe I made you understand that the Sons of the Bird will brook no interference from such as you two. You understood that, did you not?”
“I understood you,” she answered. But her eyes were defiant.
“Good. Be it understood that it is our wish that your husband have nothing more to do with…a certain party. In order to insure that result we are about to split you into two parts. The part that keeps you going, that which you rather amusingly call the soul, we will squeeze into this bottle and keep. As for the rest, well, your husband may have that to keep with him, as a reminder that the Sons of the Birds have you in pawn. You understand me?”
She ignored the question. Randall tried to answer, found that his throat was misbehaving again.
“Listen to me, Mrs. Randall; if you are ever to see your husband again it is imperative that he obey us. He must not, on pain of your death, see his client again. Under the same penalty he must hold his tongue concerning us and all that has transpired. If he does not — well, we will make your death very interesting, I assure you.”
Randall tried to cry out that he would promise anything they wanted to spare her, but his voice was still silenced — apparently Stoles wanted to hear from Cynthia first. She shook her head. “He’ll do as he thinks wise.”
Stoles smiled. “Fine,” he said. “That was the answer I wanted. You, Mr. Randall — do you promise?”
He wanted to agree, he was about to agree — but Cynthia was saying, “No!” with her eyes. From her expression he knew that her speech was now being blocked. Inside his head, clear as speech, he seemed to hear her say, “It’s a trick, Brain. Don’t promise!”
He kept quiet.
Phipps dug a thumb into his eye. “Answer when you are spoken to!”
He had to squint the injured eye in order to see Cynthia, but her expression still approved; he kept his mouth shut.
Presently Stoles said, “Never mind. Get on with it, gentlemen.”
Printemps stuck the bottle under Cynthia’s nose, held it against her left nostril. “Now!” he directed. Another of them pressed down on her short ribs vigorously, so that her breath was expelled suddenly. She grunted.
“Teddy,” she said, “they’re pulling me apar — Ugh!”
The process had been repeated with the bottle at the other nostril. Randall felt the soft warm hand in his suddenly relax. Printemps held up the bottle with his thumb over its top. “Let’s have the wax,” he said briskly. Having sealed it he passed it over to Phipps.
Stoles jerked a thumb toward the big mirror. “Put them back,” he directed.
Phipps superintended the passing of Cynthia back through the glass, then turned to Stoles. “Couldn’t we give him something to make him remember us?” he inquired.