But this is a romance of the present day, the age of nerves and
high velocity. Barbara Mackwayte, strong and plucky as she was,
after being half throttled and violently thrown into the cellar
of the Dyke Inn, suddenly gave way under the strain and
conveniently evaded facing the difficulties of her position by
fainting clear away.
The precise moment when she came out of her swoon she never knew.
The cellar was dark; but it was nothing compared to the darkness
enveloping her mind. She lay there on the damp and mouldy straw,
hardly able, scarcely wanting, to move, overwhelmed by the
extraordinary adventure which had befallen her. Was this to be
the end of the pleasant trip into the country on which she had
embarked so readily only a few hours before? She tried to
remember that within twenty miles of her were policemen and taxis
and lights and all the attributes of our present day
civilization; but her thoughts always returned, with increasing
horror, to that undersized yellow-faced man in the room above, to
the face of Nur-el-Din, dark and distorted with passion.
A light shining down the cellar stairs drew her attention to the
entrance. The woman she had already seen and in whom she now
recognized Marie, the dancer's maid, was descending, a tray in
her hand.
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