The eyes instantly responded. It was as though a mist slowly faded from before them, layer after layer, as fog rises from a lake in the morning. Her mouth relaxed and expression returned to each feature.

When at length she became aware of her surroundings, she looked like an awakened child. Pressing her fingers to her heavy eyes, she glanced wonderingly about her. She could not understand the tragical att.i.tude of the two men who studied her so fixedly. She struggled to her feet and regarded both men with fear. With her fingers on her chin, she cowered back from them gazing to right and left as though looking for someone she had expected.

"Father!" she exclaimed timidly. "Are you here, father?"

Wilson took her arm gently but firmly.

"Your father is not here, comrade. He has not been here. You--you drowsed a bit, I guess."

She caught sight of the image on the floor and instantly understood.

She pa.s.sed her hands over her eyes in an effort to recall what she had seen.

"I remember--I remember," she faltered. "I was in some foreign land--some strange place--and I saw--I saw my father."

She looked puzzled.

"That is odd, because it was _here_ that I saw him yesterday."

Her lips were dry and she asked Wilson for a gla.s.s of water. A pitcher stood upon the table, which he had brought up with the other things.

When she had moistened her lips, she sat down again still a bit stupid. The wounded man spoke.

"My dear," he said, "what you have just seen through the medium of that image interests me more than I can tell you. It may be that I can be of some help to you. My name is Sorez--and I know well that country which you have just seen. It is many thousand miles from here."

"As far as the land of dreams," interrupted Wilson. "I think the girl has been worried enough by such nonsense."

"You spoke of your father," continued Sorez, ignoring the outburst.

"Has he ever visited South America?"

"Many times. He was a sea captain, but he has not been home for years now."

"Ah, Dios!" exclaimed Sorez, "I understand now why you saw so clearly."

"You know my father--you have seen him?"

He waived her question aside impatiently. His strength was failing him again and he seemed anxious to say what he had to say before he was unable.

"Listen!" he began, fighting hard to preserve his consciousness. "You have a power that will lead you to much. This image here has spoken through you. He has a secret worth millions and----"

"But my father," pleaded the girl, with a tremor in her voice. "Can it help me to him?"

"Yes! Yes! But do not leave me. Be patient. The priest--the priest is close by. He--he did this," placing his hand over the wound, "and I fear he--he may come again."

He staggered back a pace and stared in terror about him.

"I am not afraid of most things," he apologized, "but that devil he is everywhere. He might be----"

There was a sound in the hall below. Sorez placed his hand to his heart again and staggered back with a piteous appeal to Wilson.

"The image! The image!" he gasped. "For the love of G.o.d, do not let him get it."

Then he sank in a faint to the floor.

Wilson looked at the girl. He saw her stoop for the revolver. She thrust it in his hand.

CHAPTER V

_In the Dark_

Wilson made his way into the hall and peered down the dark stairs. He listened; all was silent. A dozen perfectly simple accidents might have caused the sound the three had heard; and yet, although he had not made up his mind that the stranger's whole story was not the fabric of delirium, he had an uncomfortable feeling that someone really was below. Neither seeing nor hearing, he knew by some sixth sense that another human being stood within a few yards of him waiting. Who that human being was, what he wished, what he was willing to venture was a mystery. Sorez had spoken of the priest--the man who had stabbed him--but it seemed scarcely probable that after such an act as that a man would break into his victim's house, where the chances were that he was guarded, and make a second attempt. Then he recalled that Sorez was apparently living alone here and that doubtless this was known to the mysterious priest. If the golden image were the object of his attack, truly it must have some extraordinary value outside its own intrinsic worth. If of solid gold it could be worth but a few hundred dollars. It must, then, be of value because of such power as it had exercised over the girl.

There was not so much as a creak on the floor below, and still his conviction remained that someone stood there gazing up as he was staring down. If only the house were lighted! To go back and get the candle would be to make a target of himself for anyone determined in his mission, but he must solve this mystery. The girl expected it of him and he was ready to sacrifice his life rather than to stand poorly in her eyes. He paused at this thought. Until it came to him at that moment, in that form, he had not realized anything of the sort. He had not realized that she was any more to him now than she had ever been--yet she had impelled him to do an unusual thing from the first.

Yes, he had done for her what he would have done for no other living woman. He had helped her out of the clutches of the law, he had been willing to strike down an officer if it had been necessary, he had broken into a house for her, and now he was willing to risk his life.

The thought brought him joy. He smiled, standing there in the dark at the head of the stairs, that he had in life this new impulse--this new propelling force. Then he slid his foot forward and stepped down the first stair.

He still had strongly that sense of being watched, but there was no movement below to indicate that this was anything more than a fancy.

Not a sound came from the room he had just left. Evidently the girl was waiting breathlessly for his return. He must delay no longer. He moved on, planning to try the front door and then to examine the window by which he himself had entered. These were the only two possible entrances to the house; the other windows were beyond the reach of anyone without a ladder and were tightly boarded in addition.

He found the front door fast locked. It had a patent lock so that the chance of anyone having opened and closed it again was slight. He breathed more easily.

Groping along the hallway he was vividly reminded of the time a few hours past when the girl had placed her hand within his. It seemed to him that he now felt the warmth of it--thrilled to the velvet softness of it--more than he had at the time. He was full of illusions, excited by all the unusual happenings, and now, as he felt his way along the dark pa.s.sage, he could have sworn that her fingers still rested upon his. It made him restless to get back to her. He should not have left her behind alone and unprotected. It was very possible that this swoon of Sorez' was but a ruse. He must hurry on about his investigation. He descended to the lower floor and groped to the laundry. It was still dark; the earth would not be lighted for another hour. He neither heard nor saw anything here. But when he reached the window by which he himself had entered but which he had closed behind him, he gave a start--it was wide open. It told him of another's presence in this house as plainly as if he had seen the person. There was of course one chance in a hundred that the intruder had become frightened and taken to his heels. Wilson turned back with fresh fear for the girl whom he had been forced to leave behind unprotected. If it was true, as the terrified Sorez had feared, that the priest, whoever this mysterious and unscrupulous person might be, had returned to the a.s.sault, there certainly was good cause to fear for the safety of the girl. A man so fanatically inspired as to be willing to commit murder for the sake of an idol must be half mad. The danger was that the girl, in the belief which quite evidently now possessed her--that this golden thing held the key to her father's whereabouts--might attempt to protect or conceal it. He stumbled up the dark stairs and fell flat against the door. It was closed. He tried the k.n.o.b; the door was locked. For a moment Wilson could not believe. It was as though in a second he had found himself thrust utterly out of the house. His first suspicion flew to Sorez, but he put this from his mind instantly.

There was no acting possible in that man's condition; he was too weak to get down the stairs. But this was no common thief who had done this, for a thief, once realizing a household is awakened, thinks of nothing further but flight. It must then be no other than the priest returned to the quest of his idol.

Wilson threw his weight against the door, but this was no garden gate to give before such blows. At the end of a half dozen attempts, he paused, bruised and dizzy. It seemed impossible to force the bolt.

Yet no sooner had he reached this conclusion than the necessity became compelling; the bolt _must_ be forced. At such moments one's emotions are so intensified that, if there be any hidden pa.s.sion, it is instantly brought to light. With the impelling need of reaching the girl's side--a frantic need out of proportion to any normal relationship between them--Wilson realized partly the instinct which had governed him from the moment he had first caught sight of her features in the rain. If at this stage it could not properly be called love, it was at least an obsessing pa.s.sion with all love's attributes.

As he paused there in blinding fury at being baffled by this senseless wooden door, he saw her as he had seen the faces between the stars, looking down at him tenderly and trustingly. A lump rose to his throat and his heart grew big within him. There was nothing now--no motive, no ambition, no influence--which could ever control him until after this new great need was satisfied. All this came over him in a flash--he saw as one sees an entire landscape by a single stroke of lightning. Then he faced the door once again.

The simple accident of the muzzle of his revolver striking against the door k.n.o.b furnished Wilson the inspiration for his next attack. He examined the cylinder and found that four cartridges remained. These were all. Each one of them was precious and would be doubly so once he was beyond this barrier. He thrust the muzzle of the revolver into the lock and fired. The bullet ripped and tore and splintered. Again he placed his shoulder to the door and pushed. It gave a trifle, but still held. He must sacrifice another cartridge. He shot again and this time, as he threw his body full against the bolt, it gave. He fell in atop the debris, but instantly sprang to his feet and stumbled along the hall to the stairway. He mounted this three steps at a time.

At the door to the study he was again checked--there was no light within and no voice to greet him. He called her name; the ensuing silence was ghastly in its suggestiveness. He started through the door, but a slight rustling or creak caused him to dart back, and a knife in the hand of some unknown a.s.sailant missed him by a margin so slight that his sleeve was ripped from elbow to wrist.

With c.o.c.ked revolver Wilson waited for the rush which he expected to follow immediately. Save that the curtains before him swayed slightly, there was nothing to show that he was not the only human being in the house. Sorez might still be within unconscious, but what of the girl?

He called her name. There was no reply. He dashed through the curtains--for the sixteenth of a second felt the sting of a heavy blow on his scalp, and then fell forward, the world swirling into a black pit at his feet.

When Wilson came to himself he realized that he was in some sort of vehicle. The morning light had come at last--a cold, luminous gray wash scarcely yet of sufficient intensity to do more than outline the world. He attempted to rise, but fell back weakly. He felt his neck and the collar of the luxurious bath robe he still wore to be wet. It was a sticky sort of dampness. He moved his hand up farther and found his hair to be matted. His fingers came in contact with raw flesh, causing him to draw them back quickly. The carriage jounced over the roadbed as though the horses were moving at a gallop. For a few moments he was unable to a.s.sociate himself with the past at all; it was as though he had come upon himself in this situation as upon a stranger. The driver without the closed carriage seemed bent upon some definite enough errand, turning corners, galloping up this street and across that. He tried to make the fellow hear him, but above the rattling noise this was impossible. There seemed to be nothing to do but to lie there until the end of the journey, wherever that might be.

He lay back and tried to delve into the past. The first connecting link seemed years ago,--he was running away from something, her hand within his. The girl--yes, he remembered now, but still very indistinctly. But soon with a great influx of joy he recalled that moment at the door when he had realized what she meant to him, then the blind pounding at the door, then the run upstairs and--this.

He struggled to his elbow. He must get back to her. How had he come here? Where was he being taken? He was not able to think very clearly and so found it difficult to devise any plan of action, but the necessity drove him on as it had in the face of the locked door. He must stop the carriage and--but even as he was exerting himself in a struggle to make himself heard, the horses slowed down, turned sharply and trotted up a driveway to the entrance of a large stone building.

Some sort of an attendant came out, exchanged a few words with the driver, and then, opening the door, looked in. He reached out his hand and groped for Wilson's pulse.

"Where am I?" asked Wilson.

"That's all right, old man," replied the attendant in the paternal tone of those in lesser official positions. "Able to walk, or shall I get a stretcher?"

"Walk? Of course I can walk. What I want to know is----"