Two were slow in obeying, and those she struck across the face with a
small whip, till they whined with pain. They stood there in silence, twenty odd blind men, chained against as
many pillars of stone; and then the woman, standing in the middle of
them, started to sing. It was a well-trained voice, but metallic, and
her high notes had in them the cry of a wild animal. No feminine
softness there. She sang from an Italian opera, and I knew that I had
heard that song before. While she sang, her audience waited silently. At
last she finished, and they started to applaud. Shrunken hands beat
noisily against shrunken hands. She seemed to watch them carefully, as though she were measuring the
degree of their appreciation. One man did not satisfy her. She went over
and dug into his face with long strokes of those long red nails until
his face was red and her fingers bloody. And when she finished her
second song that man clapped louder than any of them. He had learned his
lesson. She ended by giving them each another roll and a dipper of water. Then,
lantern and basket in her hands, she walked away and disappeared down
the tunnel. The blind men, crying and cursing in their impotent rage,
sank down on their stone beds. I went to my friend, and took his hand. "George! George Seabrook!" I whispered. He sat up and cried, "Who calls me? Who is there?" I told him, and he started to cry. At last he became quiet enough to
talk to me. What he told me, with slight variants, was the story of all
the men there and all the men who had been there but who had died. Each
man had been master for a day or a week. Each had found the cellar door
and had come to the Donna Marchesi for the key. Some had been suspicious
and had written their thoughts on the wall of their bedroom. But one and
all had, in the end, found their curiosity more than they could resist
and had opened the door. On the other side they had been overpowered and
chained to a pillar, and there they had remained till they died. Some of
them lived longer than the rest. Smith of Boston had been there over two
years, though he was coughing badly and did not think that he could last
much longer. Seabrook told me their names. They were the best blood of
America, with three Englishmen and one Frenchman. "And are you all blind?" I whispered, dreading the answer. "Yes. That happens the first night we are here. She does it with her
nails." "And she comes every night?" "Every night. She feeds us and sings to us and we applaud. When one of
us dies, she unchains the body, and throws it down a hole somewhere. She
talks to us about that hole sometimes and brags that she is going to
fill it up before she stops." "But who is helping her?" "I think it is the real-estate man. Of course, the old devils upstairs
help. I think that they must drug us. Some of the men say that they went
to sleep in their beds and woke, chained to their posts." My voice trembled as I bent over and whispered in his ear, "What would
you do, George, if she came and sang, and you found that you were not
chained? You and the other men not chained? What would you men do,
George?" "Ask them," he snarled. "Ask them, one at a time. But I know what I
would do. I know!" And he started to cry, because he could not do it the next second; cried
from rage and helplessness till the tears ran from his empty sockets. "Does she always come at the same time?" "As far as I know. But time is nothing to us. We just wait for death." "Are the chains locked?" "Yes. And she must have the key. But we could file the links if only we
had files. If only each of us had a file, we could get free. Perhaps the
man upstairs has a key, but I hardly think so." "Did you write on that pretty wall upstairs, the whitewashed wall?" "I did; I think we all did. One man wrote a sonnet to the woman, verses
in her honor, telling about her beautiful eyes. He raved about that poem
for hours while he was dying. Did you ever see it on the wall?" "I did not see it. The old people whitewash the walls before each new
master comes." "I thought so." "Are you sure you would know what to do, George, if she sang to you and
you were loose?" "Yes, we would know." So I left him, promising an end to the matter as soon as I could arrange
it. *       *       *       *       *

The next day saw me calling on the Donna Marchesi. I took her flowers
that time, a corsage of vivid purple and scarlet orchids. She
entertained me in her music room and I, taking the hint, asked her to
sing. Shyly, almost with reluctance, she did as I asked. She sang the
selection from the Italian opera that I knew so well. I was generous in
my applause. She smiled. "You like to hear me sing?" "Indeed! I want to hear you again. I could hear you daily without
growing tired." "You're nice," she purred. "Perhaps it could be arranged." "You are too modest. You have a wonderful voice. Why not give it to the
world?" "I sang once in public," she sighed. "It was in New York, at a private
musical. There were many men there. Perhaps it was stage fright; my
voice broke badly, and the audience, especially the men, were not kind. I am not sure, but I thought that I heard some of them hiss me." "Surely not!" I protested. "Indeed, so. But no man has hissed my singing since then." "I hope not!" I replied indignantly. "You have a wonderful voice, and,
when I applauded you, I was sincere. By the way, may I change my mind
and ask for the key to the door in the cellar?" "Do you want it, really want it, my friend?" "I am sure I do. I may never use it, but it will please me to have it. Little things in life make me happy, and this key is a little thing." "Then you shall have it. Will you do me a favor? Wait till Sunday to use
it. Today is Friday, and you will not have to wait many hours." "It will be a pleasure to do as you desire," I replied, kissing her
hand. "And shall I hear you sing again? May I come often to hear you
sing?" "I promise you that," she sighed. "I am sure that you will hear me sing
often in the future. I feel that in some way our fates approach the same
star." I looked into her eyes, her yellow cat-eyes, and I was sure that she
spoke the truth. Destiny had certainly brought me to find her in Sorona. *       *       *       *       *

I bought two dozen rat-tailed files, and dashed across the mountains to
Milan. There I was closeted with the consuls of three nations: England,
France and my own. They did not want to believe my story. I gave them
names, and they had to admit that there had been inquiries, but they
felt that the main details were nightmares, resulting from an over-use
of Italian wines. But I insisted that I was not drunk with new wine. At
last, they called in the chief of the detective bureau. He knew Franco,
the real-estate agent; also the lady in question. And he had heard
something of the villa; not much, but vague whisperings. "We will be there Saturday night," he promised. "That leaves you
tonight. The lady will not try to trap you till Sunday.