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Page 96
He was tripped and thrown. He fought furiously, but the fatal
knee pressure came upon his spine so shrewdly as to deprive him
of the strength to raise his hands.
"My finish!" were the words that flashed through his mind, as
sounds like the waves of a great ocean beat upon his ears and
darkness began to descend.
Then, miraculously, the pressure ceased; the sound of great
waters subsided; and choking, coughing, he fought his way back to
life, groping like a blind man and striving to regain his feet.
"Mr. Brinn!" said a vaguely familiar voice. "Mr. Brinn!"
The realities reasserted themselves. Before him, pale, wide-eyed,
and breathing heavily, stood Paul Harley; and prone upon the
floor of the pantry lay Rama Dass, still clutching one end of the
silken rope in his hand!
"Mr. Harley!" gasped Brinn. "My God, sir!" He clutched at his
bruised throat. "I have to thank you for my life."
He paused, looking down at the prone figure as Harley, dropping
upon his knees, turned the man over.
"I struck him behind the ear," he muttered, "and gave him every
ounce. Good heavens!"
He had slipped his hand inside Rama Dass's vest, and now he
looked up, his face very grim.
"Good enough!" said Brinn, coolly. "He asked for it; he's got it.
Take this." He thrust the Colt automatic into Harley's hand as
the latter stood up again.
"What do we do now?" asked Harley.
"Search the house," was the reply. "Everything coloured you see,
shoot, unless I say no."
"Miss Abingdon?"
"She's safe. Follow me."
Straight up two flights of stairs led Nicol Brinn, taking three
steps at a stride. Palpably enough the place was deserted. Ormuz
Khan's plans for departure were complete.
Into two rooms on the first floor they burst, to find them
stripped and bare. On the threshold of the third Brinn stopped
dead, and his gaunt face grew ashen. Then he tottered across the
room, arms outstretched.
"Naida," he whispered. "My love, my love!"
Paul Harley withdrew quietly. He had begun to walk along the
corridor when the sound of a motor brought him up sharply. A
limousine was being driven away from the side entrance! Not alone
had he heard that sound. His face deathly, and the lack-lustre
eyes dully on fire, Nicol Brinn burst out of the room and, not
heeding the presence of Harley, hurled himself down the stairs.
He was as a man demented, an avenging angel.
"There he is!" cried Harley--"heading for the Dover Road!"
Nicol Brinn, at the wheel of the racer--the same in which Harley
had made his fateful journey and which had afterward been
concealed in the garage at Hillside--scarcely nodded.
Nearer they drew to the quarry, and nearer. Once--twice--and
again, the face of Ormuz Khan peered out of the window at the
rear of the limousine.
They drew abreast; the road was deserted. And they passed
slightly ahead.
Paul Harley glanced at the granite face of his companion with an
apprehension he was unable to conceal. This was a cool madman who
drove. What did he intend to do?
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