CHAPTER XXX.
A DELECTABLE TRIO.
Horrible pains, cold, heat, burning thirst, a choking sensation, a frantic desire to draw a deep breath, to move, to cry out—all these Frank felt.
Was it possible he still lived?
He asked himself the question, for the belief that he was dead seemed to have fixed itself upon him.
Then came the impression that he was indeed dead, and that he was suffering the tortures of the damned.
But what had he done in life to merit such torment? He had ever tried to be honest and square, to treat all men justly, and to injure no one who let him alone. In life he had even fancied himself something of a Christian in his way.
And he had been condemned, like the vilest sinner, to eternal torment?
He would not believe a Supreme Being could do such a thing, and so, for all of the agony he was enduring, he began to think that he still lived.
Then he heard voices near at hand. At first the words were jumbled and unintelligible, but after a time he could make out some things which were said.
He breathed, but every breath caused him the most acute pains, the most indescribable torment.
It seemed that his windpipe was raw from one end to the other, and the air which he drew through it was liquid fire.
Then came the thought that he might be in deadly danger still and, although it cost him terrible torture, he remained in the same fixed position, making no move to ease his cramped limbs and aching body.
He seemed to recognize some of the voices he heard, but it was a long time before he could connect the voices with their owners.
At last, however, he made out that one of the speakers was Emile Durant, the fierce-eyed anarchist from Paris.
Another speaker was Kennington Glanworth, and Frank heard this fellow saying:
“Of course it is a decidedly unpleasant piece of business, but the blooming fool would have made us no end of trouble.”
“Ha! Zat ees right,” said Durant. “I know zat boy in Paree. He was one wondare.”
“Well, he is done for now,” said another voice. “Luptus finished him this time. It does not take the dummy long to end them when he gets those icy hands of his on their throats.”
“He is one dev-val!” cried Durant. “He would keel his own moder for a dreenk.”
“Such a job as this is not likely to meet the approval of our friends,” said Glanworth. “Some of them might denounce us if they knew. I will confess that I am rather scared myself.”
“Scare!” cried the French anarchist. “Bah! What you scare for? You must haf ze nerfe. What eef you was tole to blow up ze Tower? You may be set to do zat job some time.”
“That would be different. It would be for the cause to which I am pledged.”
“Eet would be more dangare than zis job, and you deed not do zis.”
“Still I was willing it should be done, and that——”
“Ees notting. All zat make me feel bad ees zat I deed not keel zat boy myself. I hate heem—mon Dieu! how I hate heem! He be ze ruain of ze brozarehood in Paree.”
“And he stood between me and one I care for very much,” declared Glanworth. “Since she met him here in London she has scarcely been civil to me, and we were fast becoming more than friends and cousins before that.”
“Let ze girls alone,” advised the Frenchman. “Zat ees what I tell all zot work for ze int’res’ of ze people. Woman she all ze time get man into trouble.”
“You know why I am one of you,” said Glanworth. “My father labored for the cause till he was banished. If proof could have been brought against him, he would have been imprisoned, but suspicion was not proof, and so he was banished. Poor father! He died in America, still laboring for our glorious cause.”
By this time Frank was able to open his eyes. He did so cautiously, and he saw the trio seated at a table, on which was a bottle of whiskey and glasses. The third man, whose voice he had not recognized, was the bomb-thrower.
“They think me dead,” flashed through the boy’s mind. “Perhaps it will be the best for me to continue to play dead.”
He maintained perfect silence, for all that he was cramped and aching in all parts of his body.
He had been thrown down in the corner of the wretched room, which was miserably furnished, the floors and walls being bare.
The men at the table filled their glasses and drank, Durant offering a toast to the success of their cause.
“This body must be disposed of,” said Glanworth, casting a glance toward the huddled form in the corner, and shuddering.
“Luptus will attend to that,” assured the bomb-thrower.
“It must not be removed from here till long after midnight.”
“Of course not. We will take no chances of being seen.”
“What is to be done with it?”
“It is to be sewed in a bag and sunk in the river.”
“Well, that is decidedly pleasant information!” thought the supposed dead boy.
Frank knew he was weak and helpless, therefore in no condition to battle with his enemies. There was little hope for him to escape.
“I suppose one of us had better remain here and watch the body till Luptus comes for it,” said the bomb-thrower.
“Bah! No need of zat,” growled Durant. “He ees dead.”
“Yes, but——”
“Put ze body in ze odare room, and lock ze door. Nobodee find eet zare. Zere ees no blood to make zem look.”
“That is a good plan,” nodded Glanworth, who did not relish the idea of being left alone with a corpse, in case it might fall to his lot.
Durant arose.
“He will make no noises to disturb anybodee.” said the little anarchist. “He weel nevare disturb anybodee again.”
“We’ll see about that,” thought Frank. “I may still be able to create quite a disturbance for you.”
Durant walked over and kicked Frank in a vicious manner.
“Littul dev-val!” he snarled. “Where ees Montparnasse, Lenoir, Vaugirad, Verlain and Novesky? Blown to ten thousand pieces, and all by you! I swear I would leeve to see you dead, and now I haf kept zat pledge.”
Frank longed to leap up and grapple with the little wretch, but he remained perfectly quiet, as if not a spark of life remained in his body.
“What’s the use to kick him?” said the bomb-thrower. “He can’t feel you now. He is finished. Let him alone.”
“I’d like to haf heem feel me for one leettul minute!” grated Durant, as he gave the boy another brutal kick.
“Come, come,” said Glanworth. “What’s the good of that! Pick him up and dump him in the back room. I’ll unlock the door.”
He did so.
“Take hold,” ordered Linton, the bomb-thrower.
“I don’t want to touch him,” shivered Glanworth, drawing back, as if still afraid of Frank. “Two of you are enough.”
“I am enough for zat job,” declared Durant, as he caught the supposed-to-be dead boy by the heels and dragged him across the floor.
Frank permitted himself to be dragged in this manner, like a sack of flour. Having hauled the boy into the dark little back room, Durant let his heels drop to the floor with a thump.
“Stay zere till you are taken out to sink to ze bottom of ze river,” growled the malicious little Frenchman, as he turned and left the room.
The door closed, the key rattled in the lock, the bolt turned with a rusty, grating sound, and Frank was a captive in that stuffy little room. Listening, he heard the footsteps of his enemies die out in the distance.