In The Fulness Of Time

: The Doomsman

The streets were as light as noonday, and Constans found no difficulty

in keeping the dying figure in sight. But, run as he would, he could not

gain a yard.



"Arcadia House," muttered Constans, under his breath, as he noticed the

direction taken by the runner. What more natural than that a man should

seek his own home at such a time? But Constans's brow was clouded as he

followed in Quinton Edge's footstep
.



Arcadia House, and why? There could be but one answer to that question

after Nanna's message, conveyed to him through Ulick's dying lips. Esmay

had disappeared, and yet had remained in Arcadia House. He, who knew

Quinton Edge, would understand.



Constans told himself grimly that he did understand. This insolent

wanted the girl, just as he had desired many another thing in life, and

it had always been his way to take what he coveted. But this

time--Constans set his teeth hard, and now, at last, Arcadia House was

in sight.



During this last quarter of an hour the progress of the conflagration

had been perceptibly slower, and the great sheaf of flame in the western

sky had almost disappeared. It was like the lull that so often takes

place in a storm, a period of sudden quiet in the element strife that

should warn the prudent that the worst is still to come. To Constans it

was the most fortunate of happenings, the comparative darkness enabling

him to keep close upon Quinton Edge without risk of discovery.



As though satisfied that he had arrived in time, Quinton Edge now

slackened his pace, making for the gateway on the side street. Whereupon

Constans determined to scale the wall at the rear and take the short cut

through the garden, so as to intercept the Doomsman at the entrance.

Once over the wall, the way was clear. Disdaining caution, he crashed

recklessly through the shrubbery, the wet and tangled grass wrapping

itself exasperatingly about his ankles as he ran. At the carriage-drive

he stopped, flinging himself full length on the ground and close against

the wall that marked the sunken way. The run had winded him, and he was

thankful for the moment's breathing-space.



From where Constans lay he could command sight of the north terrace that

connected the porticos of the river and western fronts. Suddenly it

seemed to him that the terrace was occupied by some living thing. A

moment before he had noticed a darker blur in the shadows at the river

corner; it had appeared to move. He heard a soft padding on the

flag-stones as of an animal moving cautiously. He strained his eyes,

striving to resolve that dusky blotch into shape intelligible; then a

new burst of flame lit up the western sky and he saw clearly--it was

Fangs, the hound.



The dog stood motionless, her head thrown upward as though listening.

She could not possibly see Constans where he lay, but the smallest noise

must betray him.



His revolver was in a side pocket, and he drew it forth with infinite

care. Then he discovered that it was unloaded and that he had no more

cartridges. His knife also had disappeared from its sheath; he realized

that he was absolutely unarmed and helpless.



The hound leaped lightly from the terrace and began ranging in great

half-circles. Constans looked on with fascinated eyes. It could be a

matter of seconds only when she must cross his scent, and he knew that

she would remember it--there was a blood-feud between them--the death of

Blazer, who had been her mate.



The pass-key rattled in the lock of the postern-door, and Quinton Edge

entered the sunken way. Fangs heard the noise, hesitated a moment, then

tossed her black muzzle in the air and bounded forward to meet her

master. Constans wiped away the sweat that was blinding his eyes and

waited. Quinton Edge, with the hound by his side, went up the steps

leading to the terrace.



Some one came forward to meet him--a slim, womanish figure dressed in

white. Constans's heart gave a great bound, for who but Esmay carried

her small head with so irresistible a grace. She held out her hands as

Quinton Edge reached her side, but he crushed her into his arms and

kissed her on the lips. They walked slowly along the terrace, turned the

corner of the eastern portico, and disappeared. Constans, running up,

was just an instant too late; he heard Quinton Edge calling the dog

inside, then the sound of the closing door.



By a supreme exercise of will Constans stopped short of the insanity

that impelled him to thunder on the barrier and demand admittance. Yet

he must gain instant entrance to the house, and he ran around the

terrace to the river portico. As he had expected, the hall-door was

fastened, but he had no difficulty in forcing one of the long windows of

the drawing-room; he stepped into the dark and empty room and stood

listening.



There was perfect silence everywhere, but he could not trust to it--eyes

and ears might be in waiting at every turn, and, above all, there was

the dog. He wondered that the hound had not already detected his



presence in the house, and his pulse thumped at the thought; he fancied

that he could hear deep breathing and the oncoming of padded feet.



The minutes passed, and the silence remained unbroken. Then the sense of

his cowardice smote him; the jaws of the brute would be preferable to

this intolerable inaction, and he went forward through the half-opened

door and into the main hall.



This, too, was empty, and, having windows that faced the west, it was

sufficiently well lighted by the conflagration to make the fact of its

desertion certain. And Constans owed it to the friendly flames that he

was once more provided with a weapon. There was a rapier hanging upon

the wall, slender and yet strong, of very ancient make; in an instant he

had it down and was trying the temper of its blade upon the hearthstone.



The touch of the cold steel was like a tonic; heart and blood responded

immediately. Its discovery had been a fortunate chance, for again the

illumination in the west died down the final pianissimo before the full

crash of the orchestra--and the darkness returned deeper than before.



Constans, with the rapier held shortened in his hand, found his way to

the staircase and began the ascent. At the turn of the second landing he

stopped, feeling instinctively that there was something in the way. When

he could bear no longer to wait and listen, he put his hand down and

felt beneath it the smooth, hairy coat of the hound's body. The dog was

quite dead, and lying in a pool of her own blood; there was a warm,

sickly smell of salt in the air, and Constans's hand was wet when he

fetched it away. Who had done this thing, and why?



He went on, with every sense on edge. He could hardly have mistaken his

way now, for the door before him stood partly ajar, and there was a

light in the room; Constans guessed that it must be the first of the

private apartments belonging to Quinton Edge.



He looked in. The room was a large one and luxuriously furnished. An

ancient hanging-lamp of brass hung from the ceiling, diffusing a soft

radiance; the curtains that concealed the deep window-seat were closely

drawn, and, had Constans made his observations with more care, he might

have noticed that something moved behind them, an unwieldy bulk that

gathered itself as though for a spring.



But he took no account of these smaller things, his eyes being full of

Esmay only, and surely that was she who stood there in the shelter of

Quinton Edge's arms; now she half turned her head, the better to look

into her lord's face, and Constans could trace the outline of her

profile--the upper lip, so deliciously short, and the exquisite curve

of her throat. His breath came quick as he watched them, and his grasp

tightened upon the rapier hilt. So she had deceived him, after all; she

had played the traitress from the very beginning. Twice, now, she had

smiled into his eyes and sold him for some piece of trumpery--a bracelet

of carbuncles or a kiss from Quinton Edge's lips. Well, he could kill

them both, and almost at a single stroke, since they stood with their

backs to the doorway and were quite unconscious of his presence. But,

upon further thought, he determined to wreak positive vengeance on

Quinton Edge alone. It was shame to strike a woman, and unnecessary--it

would be her punishment to live.



Dispassionately he reviewed his decision and reaffirmed it; it was now

the time for action. But he had delayed just a moment too long. Before

he could take that first forward step the one who waited behind the

window-curtains had passed before him, an ungainly figure of a man, who

limped upon one knee and whose black beard fell like a curtain before

his cruel mouth and lips--Kurt, whom men called the "Knacker." A knife

was in his hand, and he struck once and twice at Quinton Edge.



"This for the thirty lashes at Middenmass!" he shouted; "and this----"



But here Constans's rapier passed through his throat, and he fell back,

gurgling horribly and tearing at his windpipe.



It had all happened so quickly that the two living men could only stare

alternately at each other and at the burden that lay in Quinton Edge's

arms. A slim, white figure, with that red stain upon her

breast--spreading, spreading.



Constans gathered himself with a mighty effort. "Let me help you," he

said, and between them they carried her over to the couch and laid her

down. On a near-by table stood a ewer of water; Constans fetched it and

began moistening the bloodless lips. They parted with a little sigh, and

then the eyes of his sister Issa opened upon him. "Little brother," she

whispered, and smiled.



Constans looked over at Quinton Edge, but he shook his head and stood

back among the shadows.



"Little brother," said Issa again, and put out a wavering hand.



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