They were murdering her--murdering an old, kind woman silently and methodically in the darkness.

The girl strained and twisted against the pillar furiously, like an animal in a trap.

But the coils of rope held her; the scarf suffocated her.

The scuffling became a spasmodic sound, with intervals between, and then ceased altogether.
A voice spoke--a man's voice--Wethermill's.

But Celia would never have recognised it--it had so shrill and fearful an intonation.
"That's horrible," he said, and his voice suddenly rose to a scream.
"Hush!" Helene Vauquier whispered sharply.