VIII


DANCE OF THE HOURS

Four P. M.

The old clock in a corner of the study chimed resonantly and with
deliberation: four double strokes; and while yet the deep-throated music
was dying into silence the telephone bell shrieked impertinently.

Maitland bit savagely on the gag and knotted his brows, trying to bear it.
The effect was that of a coarse file rasped across raw quivering nerves.
And he lay helpless, able to do no more toward endurance than to dig nails
deep into his palms.

Again and again the fiendish clamor shattered the echoes. Blinding flashes
of agony danced down the white-hot wires strung through his head, taut from
temple to temple.

Would the fool at the other end never be satisfied that he could get no
answer? Evidently not: the racket continued mercilessly, short series of
shrill calls alternating with imperative rolls prolonged until one thought
that the tortured metal sounding-cups would crack. Thought! nay, prayed
that either such would be the case, or else that one's head might at once
mercifully be rent asunder....

That anguish so exquisite should be the means of releasing him from his