Heritage was faring, deciding how to use the coming reinforcements.
Instead he was trussed up in a wood, a prisoner of the enemy, and
utterly useless to his side. He tugged at his bonds, and nearly
throttled himself. But they were of good tarry cord and did not give
a fraction of an inch. Tears of bitter rage filled his eyes and made
furrows on his encrusted cheek. Idiot that he had been, he had
wrecked everything! What would Saskia and Dougal and Sir Archie do
without a business man by their side? There would be a muddle, and
the little party would walk into a trap. He saw it all very clearly.
The men from the sea would overpower them, there would be murder done,
and an easy capture of the Princess; and the police would turn up at
long last to find an empty headland.

He had also most comprehensively wrecked himself, and at the thought
genuine panic seized him. There was no earthly chance of escape,
for he was tucked away in this infernal jungle till such time as his
enemies had time to deal with him. As to what that dealing would be like
he had no doubts, for they knew that he had been their chief opponent.
Those desperate ruffians would not scruple to put an end to him.
His mind dwelt with horrible fascination upon throat-cutting,
no doubt because of the presence of the cord below his chin.
He had heard it was not a painful death; at any rate he remembered
a clerk he had once had, a feeble, timid creature, who had twice
attempted suicide that way. Surely it could not be very bad,
and it would soon be over.

But another thought came to him. They would carry him off in the ship
and settle with him at their leisure. No swift merciful death for him.
He had read dreadful tales of the Bolsheviks' skill in torture,
and now they all came back to him--stories of Chinese mercenaries,