He made me a low mocking bow, and then with a final glance at the candle walked quickly across to the doorway and strode out into the garden after his two companions. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN SILENCE! Silence so complete that I could almost hear the beating of my own heart as I stared across the room at the little cone of flame which burned away steadily amongst the tumbled pile of newspapers. Five minutes had passed since Manning had left me--five ghastly, interminable minutes that had seared themselves for ever into the very fibre of my being. Twice I had tried to close my eyes, but on each occasion the hideous fascination of that ever-shortening stump of candle had proved far stronger than my own will. I had wrenched at the ropes which held me until my wrists were bleeding, and, now, utterly exhausted and almost sick with pain, I leaned back waiting for the end. I had no feeling of fear for myself; all my thoughts were of the horrible fate that awaited Christine if Manning succeeded in getting her on board the yacht. I tried desperately to imagine what would happen when Bobby and Campbell reached the island. As far as I was aware they knew nothing of Manning's intentions. They would probably arrive only to find the house a mass of blazing ruins, and unless by some miracle they guessed the truth, they would be powerless to interfere until it was too late. With straining eyes I watched the little yellow flame as it began to flicker ominously in its final stages. The end was very near now. A minute--forty-five seconds---- Clang! Merciful God! What was that? A stifled cry broke from my lips, and, jerking my head round, I stared through the open doorway into the darkness outside. Someone had passed through the garden gate and was hurrying towards the house. I heard a rustle on the lawn, the swift pad of footsteps across the verandah, then, breathless and dripping wet, a slim, solitary figure stumbled into the light. It was Christine. Dressed only in the scantiest of swimming costumes, with the water still trickling from her bare arms and legs, she stood there, white-faced and horror-struck, gazing at the sight before her. "The candle!" I stammered wildly. "Quick, put it out!" With a faint splutter the wick suddenly heeled over, and a thin wisp of smoke shot up into the air. In a flash Christine seemed to realise the peril in which we stood. Almost before the words left my lips she had darted across the room, and the next moment she was stamping out the smouldering paper with her bare feet. I remember making a queer sound which I think was intended for a protest. For an instant she leaned against the wall, trembling and sobbing from the reaction; then with a kind of pitiful blind haste she groped her way to my side and began to unfasten the handkerchief which Manning had knotted across my mouth. "What have they done to you?" she faltered. "Oh, what have they done to you?"