|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 13
Having removed all traces of the scent of the orchid from our hands with
a solution of ammonia Smith and I had followed the programme laid down.
It was an easy matter to reach the rear of the house, by simply climbing
a fence, and we did not doubt that seeing the light go out in the front,
our unseen watcher would proceed to the back.
The room was a large one, and we had made up my camp-bed at one end,
stuffing odds and ends under the clothes to lend the appearance of a sleeper,
which device we also had adopted in the case of the larger bed.
The perfumed envelope lay upon a little coffee table in the center
of the floor, and Smith, with an electric pocket lamp, a revolver,
and a brassey beside him, sat on cushions in the shadow of the wardrobe.
I occupied a post between the windows.
No unusual sound, so far, had disturbed the stillness of the night.
Save for the muffled throb of the rare all-night cars passing
the front of the house, our vigil had been a silent one.
The full moon had painted about the floor weird shadows of
the clustering ivy, spreading the design gradually from the door,
across the room, past the little table where the envelope lay,
and finally to the foot of the bed.
The distant clock struck a quarter-past two.
A slight breeze stirred the ivy, and a new shadow added itself
to the extreme edge of the moon's design.
Something rose, inch by inch, above the sill of the westerly window.
I could see only its shadow, but a sharp, sibilant breath from Smith
told me that he, from his post, could see the cause of the shadow.
Every nerve in my body seemed to be strung tensely.
I was icy cold, expectant, and prepared for whatever horror
was upon us.
The shadow became stationary. The dacoit was studying the interior
of the room.
Then it suddenly lengthened, and, craning my head to the left,
I saw a lithe, black-clad form, surmounted by a Yellow face,
sketchy in the moonlight, pressed against the window-panes!
One thin, brown hand appeared over the edge of the lowered sash,
which it grasped--and then another. The man made absolutely
no sound whatever. The second hand disappeared--and reappeared.
It held a small, square box. There was a very faint CLICK.
The dacoit swung himself below the window with the agility
of an ape, as, with a dull, muffled thud, SOMETHING dropped
upon the carpet!
"Stand still, for your life!" came Smith's voice, high-pitched.
A beam of white leaped out across the room and played full upon
the coffee-table in the center.
Prepared as I was for something horrible, I know that I paled at sight
of the thing that was running round the edge of the envelope.
It was an insect, full six inches long, and of a vivid, venomous, red color!
It had something of the appearance of a great ant, with its long, quivering
antennae and its febrile, horrible vitality; but it was proportionately
longer of body and smaller of head, and had numberless rapidly moving legs.
In short, it was a giant centipede, apparently of the scolopendra group,
but of a form quite new to me.
These things I realized in one breathless instant; in the next--
Smith had dashed the thing's poisonous life out with one straight,
true blow of the golf club!
I leaped to the window and threw it widely open, feeling a silk
thread brush my hand as I did so. A black shape was dropping,
with incredible agility from branch to branch of the ivy,
and, without once offering a mark for a revolver-shot, it
merged into the shadows beneath the trees of the garden.
As I turned and switched on the light Nayland Smith dropped
limply into a chair, leaning his head upon his hands.
Even that grim courage had been tried sorely.
"Never mind the dacoit, Petrie," he said. "Nemesis will know where
to find him. We know now what causes the mark of the Zayat Kiss.
Therefore science is richer for our first brush with the enemy,
and the enemy is poorer--unless he has any more unclassified centipedes.
I understand now something that has been puzzling me since I heard of it--
Sir Crichton's stifled cry. When we remember that he was almost past speech,
it is reasonable to suppose that his cry was not `The red hand!'
but `The red ANT! Petrie, to think that I failed, by less than an hour,
to save him from such an end!"
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|