“So it would be,” Stoles said approvingly. “That is about the caliber of suggestion I expected from you. Suppose he attempted to see them, found them so. Do you think he would not understand their story? No, it must be something which seals their tongues. I intend to send them back with one of them-dead-alive!”
The whole business was so preposterous, so utterly unlikely, that Randall had been telling himself that it could not be real. He was in the clutches of a nightmare; if he could just manage to wake up, everything would be all right. The business of not being able to move-he had experienced that before in dreams. Presently you woke up from it and found that the covers had become wound around you, or you had been sleeping with both hands under your head. He tried biting his tongue so that the pain might wake him, but it did no good.
Stoles’ last words brought his attention sharply to what was going on around him, not because he understood them-they meant very little to him, though they were fraught with horror-but because of the stir of approval and anticipation which went around the table.
The pressure of Cynthia’s hand in his increased faintly. “What are they going to do, Teddy?” she whispered.
“I don’t know, darling.”
“The man, of course,” Parker commented.
Stoles looked at him. Randall had a feeling that Stoles had intended the-whatever it was that was coming!-for the man, for him, until Parker had suggested it. But Stoles answered, “I’m always grateful for your advice. It makes it so easy to know just what one should do.” Turning to the others he said, “Prepare the woman.”
“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.”