Page:Arthur Stringer - The Hand of Peril.djvu/280

 his best chance lay in getting to that telephone and calling for help.

But it would have to be a soundless journey, and a laborious one. It would have its dangers, yet they would have to be faced. There was a grave mis-step to be corrected. And the sooner that call went out, Kestner knew, the safer he would be.

He started on his journey, patiently, laboriously, grimly. He kept reminding himself that above all things no sound must be made. He knew that at any moment he might come into sudden collision with the watching and waiting Lambert. He could not forget that any unexpected contact with a bale of merchandise or a pine box end or an unconsidered scrap of paper or twig of wood might betray his presence. A mere bone-creak might spoil his plan. A garment rustle might announce his whereabouts.

Kestner went forward, inch by inch, in the strained attitude of a runner awaiting the starter's pistol-crack.

His feet had become tentacles, groping and questioning for noiseless contact. His outstretched fingers were converted into vibrating antennæ, poised and extended for the transmission of the slightest message of warning. He moved slowly through the engulfing blackness, seeming to push it aside as though it were something material and muffling. A snowflake fell no more softly than did those stockinged feet. Each foot-fall seemed an experiment of vital importance, each forward shift of the body became an adventure fraught with the direst peril. Yet he continued to advance, step by caressing step, veering