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.
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