10 Short Novels Magazine — page 123: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

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The secrets of San Silvestre were no secrets to Frayne. He had not wasted his time on his previous visit to Serrano. Where was the spring? A puff of cold air touched his face. His hand had found the edge of the panel— opened it further. He stepped through. There was no going back now—even if- death waited there in the damp darkness. The passage sloped downward as he moved silently along, pausing occasion- ally to listen. He heard nothing save the scampering of rats, and the drip of fetid water from the roof and walls. He came to a low door that was open. Moonlight filtered into the cell within, through a barred window, beyond which he heard the lap of waves against stone. He passed on. The passage turned abruptly to the left. Frayne pushed his head cautiously around the corner, and saw, far along the stone-walled corridor, a lantern’s faint gleam. That gleam came through a barred wicket in a door which closed the end of the passage. The passage itself was all darkness and silence. Frayne moved cautiously round the corner. His fingers, feeling along the outer wall, came to another door. This one was not open—far from it. There were three great iron bars, each secured by a separate and ponderous padlock. The huge door lock had a keyhole for a key that must weigh a couple of pounds. The long-dead Spaniards who had built this Castle of San Silvestre were men who believed in taking no chances with prisoners. Frayne stooped and looked through the keyhole, but .could see nothing save a - faint gleam of moonlight. This dungeon, too, opened on the outer face of the tower. He put his ear to the rusty iron, and heard the waves—then something else. _ His ear caught a murmuring, as of a voice in prayer. It was a feeble, quaver- _ ing voice, yet one which held a hint of indomitable resolution, for all its feeble- ness. , “Ah, Diés mio—padre de merced—” It was in truth, a prayer. The voice struggled on. “Father of mercy, grant me only this. I must die. I do not ask for life. But grant that my death may, by Thy infinite wisdom, be of service to my people. Hear me.... The voice was the voice of Don Carlos Aranaga, President of Serrano. RAYNE knew that voice well. Often he had talked with the man who was known as “the good Don Carlos.” Now he lay here in this dungeon, with the chill and the damp rotting his frail life away Chains clanked faintly within the door. Frayne moved his lips to the keyhole to speak some word of reassurance. The word was never spoken. Suddenly, silently, he was borne to the fioor beneath the savage assault of a man who had sprung upon him from be- hind. Years of Intelligence service had built up within Frayne reflexes which could not be taken by surprise, and even as he went down, he rolled sidewise, kicked back once—viciously—and twist-. ed to his knees. He felt,a blade bite into the flesh of his thigh. Then his left hand struck, went home against a heaving chest, while his cent was already ripping open his hol- ster Then his enemy broke the silence with a roar. “The guard!” bawled his frantic voice. “To me! The guard!” Frayne knew that voice, too. It was Morales’ voice. The door at the end of the corridor crashed open. Hobnailed boots clattered over the stone floor. Frayne had but one thought—to escape with the priceless — knowledge he had won. He kicked himself free of Morales’ clutching hand, taking another knife-cut in the leg as he did so. Then he was run- - ning for his life. Up the sloping corridor he panted, warm blood streaming down his leg. Behind him, the pursuit checked a mo- ment as the guard reached Morales, then tore on. A pistol barked, and a bullet whined past, clipping the stone beside Frayne’s head. At last his outstretched hand touched the panel. He leaped through it into the ‘sala, slammed the panel shut, and dashed for the French window. He knew now what that empty trunk was for—and the wait- ing car. He guessed what orders the chauffeur would have. The window opened at his touch. He — ran across the portico, down two steps — . ——— ——« teat i yn nes = ve 2 et - 7 4; roy vee Aa “hs ROAM BONA wo el ma adie! das HAV etnies)