turned his head toward the fire, reaching a long ape-like arm toward a glowing iron — and Ballville’s eyes blazed with a fierce and urgent meaning the watcher could not mistake. McGrath did not need the agonized motion of the tortured head that accompanied the look. With a tigerish bound he was over the windowsill and in the room, even as the startled black shot erect, whirling with apish agility.
McGrath had not drawn his gun. He dared not risk a shot that might bring other foes upon him. There was a butcher-knife in the belt that held up the ragged, muddy trousers. It seemed to leap like a living thing into the hand of the black as he turned. But in McGrath’s hand gleamed a curved Afghan dagger that had served him well in many a bygone battle.
Knowing the advantage of instant and relentless attack, he did not pause. His feet scarcely touched the floor inside before they were hurling him at the astounded black man.
An inarticulate cry burst from the thick red lips. The eyes rolled wildly, the butcher-knife went back and hissed forward with the swiftness of a striking cobra that would have disemboweled a man whose thews were less steely than those of Bristol McGrath.
But the black was involuntarily stumbling backward as he struck, and that instinctive action slowed his stroke just enough for McGrath to avoid it with a lightning-like twist of his torso. The long blade hissed under his armpit, slicing cloth and skin — and simultaneously the Afghan dagger ripped through the black, bull throat.
There was no cry, but only a choking gurgle as the man fell, spouting blood. McGrath had sprung free as a wolf springs after delivering the death-stroke. Without emotion he surveyed his handiwork. The black man was already dead, his head half-severed from his body. That slicing sidewise lunge that slew in silence, severing the throat to the spinal column, was a favorite stroke of the hairy hillmen that haunt the crags overhanging the Khyber Pass. Less than a dozen white men have ever mastered it. Bristol McGrath was one.
McGrath turned to Richard Ballville. Foam dripped on the seared, naked breast, and blood trickled from the lips. McGrath feared that Ballville had suffered the same mutilation that had rendered Ahmed speechless; but it was only suffering and shock that numbed Ballville’s tongue. McGrath cut his cords and eased him down on a worn old divan near by. Ballville’s lean, muscle-corded body quivered like taut steel strings under McGrath’s hands. He gagged, finding his voice.
“I knew you’d come!” he gasped, writhing at the contact of the divan against his seared flesh. “I’ve hated you for years, but I knew —”
McGrath’s voice was harsh as the rasp of steel. “What did you mean by your mention of Constance Brand? She is dead.”
A ghastly smile twisted the thin lips.
“No, she’s not dead! But she soon will be, if you don’t hurry. Quick! Brandy! There on the table — that beast didn’t drink it all.”
McGrath held the bottle to his lips; Ballville drank avidly. McGrath wondered at the man’s iron nerve. That he was in ghastly agony was obvious. He should be screaming in a delirium of pain. Yet he held to sanity and spoke lucidly, though his voice was a laboring croak.
“I haven’t much time,” he choked. “Don’t interrupt. Save your curses till later. We both loved Constance Brand. She loved you. Three years ago she disappeared. Her garments were found on the bank of a river. Her body was never recovered. You went to Africa to drown your sorrow; I retired to the estate of my ancestors and became a recluse.
“What you didn’t know — what the world didn’t know — was that Constance Brand came with me! No, she didn’t drown. That ruse was my idea. For three years Constance Brand has lived in this house!” He achieved a ghastly laugh. “Oh, don’t look so stunned, Bristol. She didn’t come of her own free will. She loved you too much. I kidnapped her, brought her here by force — Bristol!” His voice rose to a frantic shriek. “If you kill me you’ll never learn where she is!”
The frenzied hands that had locked on his corded throat relaxed and sanity returned to the red eyes of Bristol McGrath.
“Go on,” he whispered in a voice not even he recognized.
“I couldn’t help it,” gasped the dying man. “She was the only woman I ever loved — oh, don’t sneer, Bristol. The others didn’t count. I brought her here where I was king. She couldn’t escape, couldn’t get word to the outside world. No one lives in this section except nigger descendants of the slaves owned by my family. My word is — was — their only law.
“I swear I didn’t harm her. I only kept her prisoner, trying to force her to marry me. I didn’t want her any other way. I was mad, but I couldn’t help it. I come of a race of autocrats who took what they wanted, recognized no law but their own desires. You know that. You understand it. You come of the same breed yourself.
“Constance hates me, if that’s any consolation to you, damn you. She’s strong, too. I thought I could break her spirit. But I couldn’t, not without the whip, and I couldn’t bear to use that.” He grinned hideously at the wild growl that rose unbidden to McGrath’s lips. The big man’s eyes were coals of fire; his hard hands knotted into iron mallets.
A spasm racked Ballville, and blood started from his lips. His grin faded and he hurried on.
“All went well until the foul fiend inspired me to send for John De Albor. I met him in Vienna, years ago. He’s from East Africa — a devil in human form! He saw Constance — lusted for her as only a man of his type can. When I finally realized that, I tried to kill him. Then I found that he was stronger than I; that he’d made himself master of the niggers — my niggers, to whom my word had always been law. He taught them his devilish cult —”
“Voodoo,” muttered McGrath involuntarily.
“No! Voodoo is infantile beside this black fiendishness. Look at the symbol on my breast, where De Albor burned it with a white-hot iron. You have been in Africa. You understand the brand of Zambebwei.
“De Albor turned my Negroes against me. I tried to escape with Constance and Ahmed. My own blacks hemmed me in. I did smuggle a telegram through to the village by a man who remained faithful to me — they suspected him and tortured him until he admitted it. John De Albor brought me his head.
“Before the final break I hid Constance in a place where no one will ever find her, except you. De Albor tortured Ahmed until he told that I had sent for a friend of the girl’s, to aid us. Then De Albor sent his men up the road with what was left of Ahmed, as a warning to you if you came. It was this morning that they seized us; I hid Constance last night. Not even Ahmed knew where. De Albor tortured me to make me tell —” the dying man’s hands clenched and a fierce passionate light blazed in his eyes. McGrath knew that not all the torments of all the hells could ever have wrung that secret from Ballville’s iron lips.
“It was the least you could do,” he said, his voice harsh with conflicting emotions. “I’ve lived in Hell for three years because of you — and Constance has. You deserve to die. If you weren’t dying already I’d kill you myself.”
“Damn you, do you think I want your forgiveness?” gasped the dying man. “I’m glad you suffered. If Constance didn’t need your help, I’d like to see you dying as I’m dying — and I’ll be waiting for you in Hell. But enough of this. De Albor left me awhile to go up the road and assure himself that Ahmed was dead. This beast got to swilling my brandy and decided to torture me some himself.
“Now listen — Constance is hidden in Lost Cave. No man on earth knows of its existence except you and me — not even the Negroes. Long ago I put an iron door in the entrance, and I killed the man who did the work; so the secret is safe. There’s no key. You’ve got to open it by working certain knobs.”
It was more and more difficult for the man to enunciate intelligibly. Sweat dripped from his face, and the cords of his arms quivered.
“Run your fingers over the edge of the door until you find three knobs that form a triangle. You can’t see them; you’ll have to feel. Press each one in counter-clockwise motion, three times, around and