Every nerve in Desmond 's body was tingling with rage. The blood
was hotly throbbing against his temples and he was literally
quivering all over with fury. But he held himself in check. This
time he must not fail. Both those men were armed, he knew. What
chance could he, unarmed as he was, have against them? He must
wait, wait, that they might not escape their punishment.
Steadying the black silk curtains with his hands, he looked
through the narrow chink where the two panels met. And this was
what he saw.
Barbara Mackwayte was still in the chair; but they had unfastened
her arms though her feet were still bound. She had half-risen
from her seat. Her body was thrust forward in a strained,
unnatural attitude; her eyes were wide open and staring; and
there was a little foam on her lips. There was something
hideously deformed, horribly unlife-like about her. Though her
eyes were open, her look was the look of the blind; and, like the
blind, she held her head a little on one side as though eager not
to miss the slightest sound.
Bellward stood beside her, his face turned in profile to Desmond.
His eyes were dilated and the sweat stood out in great beads on
his forehead and trickled in broad lanes of moisture down his
heavy cheeks. He was half-facing the girl and every time he bent
towards her, she tugged and strained at her bonds as though to
follow him.
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