The fears bred of imagination had now left him; he was restored by the

shock of an actual danger. He leaned forward quietly and felt if the key

was still in the lock. But there was no lock to this door. Wogan felt

the surface of the door; it was of paper. It was plainly the door of a

cupboard in the wall, papered after the same pattern as the wall, which

by the flickering light of his single candle he had overlooked.

He opened the door and stretched out his arms into the cupboard. He

touched something that moved beneath his hand, a stiff, short crop of

hair, the hair of a man's head. He drew his arm away as though an adder

had stung it; he did not utter a cry or make a movement. He stood for a

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moment paralysed, and during that moment a strong hand caught him by the

throat.

Wogan was borne backwards, his assailant sprang at him from the

cupboard, he staggered under the unexpected vigour of the attack, he

clutched his enemy, and the two men came to the ground with a crash.

Even as he fell Wogan thought, "Gaydon would never have overlooked that

cupboard."

It was the only reflection, however, for which he could afford time. He

was undermost, and the hand at his throat had the grip of a steel glove.

He fought with blows from his fists and his bent knees; he twisted his

legs about the legs of his enemy; he writhed his body if so he might

dislodge him; he grappled wildly for his throat. But all the time his

strength grew less; he felt that his temples were swelling, and it

seemed to him that his eyes must burst. The darkness of the room was

spotted with sparks of fire; the air was filled with a continuous roar

like a million chariots in a street. He saw the face of his chosen

woman, most reproachful and yet kind, gazing at him from behind the bars

which now would never be broken, and then there came a loud banging at

the door. The summons surprised them both, so hotly had they been

engaged, so unaware were they of the noise which their fall had made.

Wogan felt his assailant's hand relax and heard him say in a low muffled

voice, "It is nothing. Go to bed! I fell over a chair in the dark."

That momentary relaxation was, he knew, his last chance. He gathered his

strength in a supreme effort, lurched over onto his left side, and

getting his right arm free swung it with all his strength in the

direction of the voice. His clenched fist caught his opponent full under

the point of the chin, and the hand at Wogan's throat clutched once and

fell away limp as an empty glove. Wogan sat up on the floor and drew his

breath. That, after all, was more than his antagonist was doing. The

knocking at the door continued; Wogan could not answer it, he had not

the strength. His limbs were shaking, the sweat clotted his hair and

dripped from his face. But his opponent was quieter still. At last he

managed to gather his legs beneath him, to kneel up, to stand shakily

upon his feet. He could no longer mistake the position of the door; he

tottered across to it, removed the chair, and opened it.




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