The Best Murder Mysteries in One Edition. Эдгар Аллан По

the verbal encounter of this afternoon. Intoxicated by his plan, Tommy gently unhooked the picture of the Devil and Faust, and settled himself in position. His hopes were high. The plan seemed to him simple but excellent.

      Time went on, but Conrad did not appear. Night and day were the same in this prison room, but Tommy’s wrist-watch, which enjoyed a certain degree of accuracy, informed him that it was nine o’clock in the evening. Tommy reflected gloomily that if supper did not arrive soon it would be a question of waiting for breakfast. At ten o’clock hope deserted him, and he flung himself on the bed to seek consolation in sleep. In five minutes his woes were forgotten.

      The sound of the key turning in the lock awoke him from his slumbers. Not belonging to the type of hero who is famous for awaking in full possession of his faculties, Tommy merely blinked at the ceiling and wondered vaguely where he was. Then he remembered, and looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock.

      “It’s either early morning tea or breakfast,” deduced the young man, “and pray God it’s the latter!”

      The door swung open. Too late, Tommy remembered his scheme of obliterating the unprepossessing Conrad. A moment later he was glad that he had, for it was not Conrad who entered, but a girl. She carried a tray which she set down on the table.

      In the feeble light of the gas burner Tommy blinked at her. He decided at once that she was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Her hair was a full rich brown, with sudden glints of gold in it as though there were imprisoned sunbeams struggling in its depths. There was a wild-rose quality about her face. Her eyes, set wide apart, were hazel, a golden hazel that again recalled a memory of sunbeams.

      A delirious thought shot through Tommy’s mind.

      “Are you Jane Finn?” he asked breathlessly.

      The girl shook her head wonderingly.

      “My name is Annette, monsieur.”

      She spoke in a soft, broken English.

      “Oh!” said Tommy, rather taken aback. “Francaise?” he hazarded.

      “Oui, monsieur. Monsieur parle francais?”

      “Not for any length of time,” said Tommy. “What’s that? Breakfast?”

      The girl nodded. Tommy dropped off the bed and came and inspected the contents of the tray. It consisted of a loaf, some margarine, and a jug of coffee.

      “The living is not equal to the Ritz,” he observed with a sigh. “But for what we are at last about to receive the Lord has made me truly thankful. Amen.”

      He drew up a chair, and the girl turned away to the door.

      “Wait a sec,” cried Tommy. “There are lots of things I want to ask you, Annette. What are you doing in this house? Don’t tell me you’re Conrad’s niece, or daughter, or anything, because I can’t believe it.”

      “I do the SERVICE, monsieur. I am not related to anybody.”

      “I see,” said Tommy. “You know what I asked you just now. Have you ever heard that name?”

      “I have heard people speak of Jane Finn, I think.”

      “You don’t know where she is?”

      Annette shook her head.

      “She’s not in this house, for instance?”

      “Oh no, monsieur. I must go now—they will be waiting for me.”

      She hurried out. The key turned in the lock.

      “I wonder who ‘they’ are,” mused Tommy, as he continued to make inroads on the loaf. “With a bit of luck, that girl might help me to get out of here. She doesn’t look like one of the gang.”

      At one o’clock Annette reappeared with another tray, but this time Conrad accompanied her.

      “Good morning,” said Tommy amiably. “You have NOT used Pear’s soap, I see.”

      Conrad growled threateningly.

      “No light repartee, have you, old bean? There, there, we can’t always have brains as well as beauty. What have we for lunch? Stew? How did I know? Elementary, my dear Watson—the smell of onions is unmistakable.”

      “Talk away,” grunted the man. “It’s little enough time you’ll have to talk in, maybe.”

      The remark was unpleasant in its suggestion, but Tommy ignored it. He sat down at the table.

      “Retire, varlet,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Prate not to thy betters.”

      That evening Tommy sat on the bed, and cogitated deeply. Would Conrad again accompany the girl? If he did not, should he risk trying to make an ally of her? He decided that he must leave no stone unturned. His position was desperate.

      At eight o’clock the familiar sound of the key turning made him spring to his feet. The girl was alone.

      “Shut the door,” he commanded. “I want to speak to you.” She obeyed.

      “Look here, Annette, I want you to help me get out of this.” She shook her head.

      “Impossible. There are three of them on the floor below.”

      “Oh!” Tommy was secretly grateful for the information. “But you would help me if you could?”

      “No, monsieur.”

      “Why not?”

      The girl hesitated.

      “I think—they are my own people. You have spied upon them. They are quite right to keep you here.”

      “They’re a bad lot, Annette. If you’ll help me, I’ll take you away from the lot of them. And you’d probably get a good whack of money.”

      But the girl merely shook her head.

      “I dare not, monsieur; I am afraid of them.”

      She turned away.

      “Wouldn’t you do anything to help another girl?” cried Tommy. “She’s about your age too. Won’t you save her from their clutches?”

      “You mean Jane Finn?”

      “Yes.”

      “It is her you came here to look for? Yes?”

      “That’s it.”

      The girl looked at him, then passed her hand across her forehead.

      “Jane Finn. Always I hear that name. It is familiar.”

      Tommy came forward eagerly.

      “You must know SOMETHING about her?”

      But the girl turned away abruptly.

      “I know nothing—only the name.” She walked towards the door. Suddenly she uttered a cry. Tommy stared. She had caught sight of the picture he had laid against the wall the night before. For a moment he caught a look of terror in her eyes. As inexplicably it changed to relief. Then abruptly she went out of the room. Tommy could make nothing of it. Did she fancy that he had meant to attack her with it? Surely not. He rehung the picture on the wall thoughtfully.

      Three more days went by in dreary inaction. Tommy felt the strain telling on his nerves. He saw no one but Conrad and Annette, and the girl had become dumb. She spoke only in monosyllables. A kind of dark suspicion smouldered in her eyes. Tommy felt that if this solitary confinement went on much longer he would go mad. He gathered from Conrad that they were waiting for orders from “Mr. Brown.” Perhaps, thought Tommy, he was abroad or away, and they were obliged to wait for his return.

      But the evening of the third day brought a rude awakening.

      It was barely seven o’clock when he heard the tramp of footsteps outside in the passage. In another minute the door was flung open. Conrad entered. With him was the