There was only that single thickness of
canvas between him and the room. He had but to make the smallest
hole in it and he would be able to see through. Even now, with
the removal of the barrier on his side, the voices were more
distinct. A complete section of the wall had evidently been
taken out and replaced by a detachable framework of wood covered
with stretched canvas. He stood back for a moment and felt with
his finger; he could almost trace the spot where the woodwork
fitted upon hinges. Then he went on his hands and knees again,
and with his penknife in his hand he paused to listen. He could
hear the man Crease talking--a slow, nasal drawl. Then he heard
Pritchard's voice, followed by what seemed to be a groan. There
was a silence, then Elizabeth seemed to ask a question. He heard
her low laugh and some note in it sent a shiver through his body.
Pritchard was speaking fiercely now. Then, in the middle of his
sentence, there was silence once more, followed by another groan.
He could almost feel the people in that room holding their
breaths.
Tavernake was rapidly forgetting all caution. The point of his
knife was through the canvas. Slowly he worked it round until a
small piece, the size of a half-crown, was partially cut through.
With infinite pains he got his head and shoulders into the small
recess and for the first time looked into the room. Pritchard
was sitting almost in the middle of the apartment; his arms
seemed to be bound to the chair and his legs were tied together.
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