He lifted up Celia with Rossignol's help, and made her sit in the middle of the sofa with her feet upon the ground.

He unbound her wrists and fingers, and Vauquier placed the writing-pad and the paper on the girl's knees.

Her arms were still pinioned above the elbows; she could not raise her hands high enough to snatch the scarf from her lips.

But with the pad held up to her she could write.
"Where did she keep her jewels! Quick! Take the pencil and write," said Wethermill, holding her left wrist.
Vauquier thrust the pencil into her right hand, and awkwardly and slowly her gloved fingers moved across the page.
"I do not know," she wrote; and, with an oath, Wethermill snatched the paper up, tore it into pieces, and threw it down.
"You have got to know," he said, his face purple with passion, and he flung out his arm as though he would dash his fist into her face.

But as he stood with his arm poised there came a singular change upon his face.
"Did you hear anything ?" he asked in a whisper.
All listened, and all heard in the quiet of the night a faint click, and after an interval they heard it again, and after another but shorter interval yet once more.
"That's the gate," said Wethermill in a whisper of fear, and a pulse of hope stirred within Celia.
He seized her wrists, crushed them together behind her, and swiftly fastened them once more.