THE YELLOW DOVE
“I am a German spy.”
“I don’t believe you,” she cried proudly. There was a note of joy in her voice, a momentary note which seemed to trail off into one of terror. “Cyril!” she whispered. “Rizzio! He wrote me to come here.”
“I knew it.”
“But he said he” she hesitated. “Why did he want me to come? There must have been some other reasons besides wanting me to see—he’s here, Cyril—somewhere”
Hammersley started and turned, his hand in his pocket, and Doris followed his look. Three men had risen from among the rocks toward the Tower.
“Don’t move, Hammersley,” said Rizzio’s voice. “You’re in danger, Doris.”
But the girl was clinging to Cyril’s arm. “No, no,” she was crying. Several shots rang out as Cyril threw her aside, dashing forward. One of the men seemed to stumble among the rocks and fall heavily. The other came in toward Cyril, his arm raised, but another shot from behind the rocks made him pause, twist half around, his hand to his shoulder as Cyril caught him a blow which sent him reeling to the edge of the cliff, over which he hung for a moment, peering downwards in horror, and then disappeared from view.
“Well done, Stryker,” she heard Cyril cry. “The other—this way. Don’t let him get off.”
And Stryker disappeared after Rizzio.
120
