Channing did not awaken until about nine.
When he appeared for breakfast, he looked wasted and feeble. He had nothing to eat, only drank black coffee and ordered trays sent to his guests’ rooms.
He still did not know what to do about them. Though he could hardly admit it to himself, he could not bear just yet to see her again. Soon his victory would be complete. Then he would stand before her to mete out his wrath.
At 10:30 the phone rang.
He listened a moment. “Bring her immediately!” he barked into the receiver. “Gunther . . . what do you need him for?”
He paused and listened. “Well, he’s not here. How much help do you need with a woman? Get her here now—I want no more delays!” He slammed down the receiver with a crash.
———
Some time after lunch had been brought to his room, Logan heard the key once more in his door. He was wanted by El Patron.
He followed the servant who delivered the message. Halfway along the corridor he met another servant escorting the Lady of Stonewycke. He cast her a heartening smile, but they dared exchange nothing beyond the commonest of pleasantries in front of Channing’s people. Soon they were back in the salon where Channing had the habit of receiving his visitors.
“I thought you would want to be present with me as I greet my new guests,” he said.
“I tell you, Channing,” Logan said hotly, “if my wife has been harmed in any way!”
“You will see for yourself in a few moments.” He waved a tired hand toward the chairs. “Make yourselves comfortable in the meantime.”
Joanna took a seat on the couch. Logan remained standing, too tense to relax. Channing sat in a chair opposite Joanna, his eyes leaving her only when the knock came to the double doors.
“Enter!” he called out, turning his head from her with effort.
Allison stepped in first, her arm in the firm grasp of the Austrian viscount, von Burchardt. He held a .38 revolver in his other hand.
Channing grinned lecherously. “Welcome to my house, Allison Macintyre.” Then he looked sharply at Emil. “Well, von Burchardt, I see you managed this job without bungling it!”
He scrutinized him for a long moment, taking in the viscount’s eyes, pencil-thin moustache, and expensive, fashionable white linen suit. “You’ve lost weight,” he mumbled off-handedly.
Emil snapped his heels together smartly and bowed in that grandiose fashion for which he was known. “My labors for you, Mein Herr,” he said in his oily German accent, “take precedence over all else—even eating!”
Channing grunted, unimpressed.
“Where is Jo?” he asked.
“There was an important matter in the city she had to attend to. She does not anticipate being detained long.”
“There is nothing more important than this!” fumed Channing. “She should be here!”
“She sends her regrets, and will be here shortly.”
“Well, I won’t wait!” Channing bellowed. He turned his attention to his guests.
“So, here you all are—all of you . . . together!” He flashed a lopsided grin. “Touching, is it not, Emil? And kind of me to arrange this little family reunion.”
“Allison, have they harmed you?” asked Logan, hurrying toward her.
“Not so fast, Macintyre!” said Emil, pointing the gun toward Logan.
“I am fine. We can be thankful at least for that. And you, Mother?” she asked.
The older woman nodded but said nothing.
“I should have hired a photographer!” gloated Channing, filled with the moment he had so long desired. “Ah yes, a photograph would be perfect—to capture this momentous occasion for our progeny to remember—especially since my daughter could not be here!”
“Your daughter!” exclaimed Allison.
“Oh yes! You did not know? Ha, ha! Had my original plan succeeded, it would have been the tour de force of my life. My own daughter installed as heiress of Stonewycke, while all the time you were taking her to your hearts as if she was one of your own! The poetic beauty of it!”
“Jo is . . . your daughter?” said Allison in disbelief, glancing toward Logan. He merely nodded sadly.
“Oh, no doubt she would have told you eventually—perhaps when you were on your deathbeds, helpless to do anything about it. Ha, ha! But I begin to think it better that she failed. Had our design worked, only she would have been able to exult in our triumph. This way, I too am able to see your faces in defeat! Ha, ha, ha! I must admit, it makes every one of the past sixty years almost worth it to see your despair on this glorious day!”
“And what now, Channing?” said Logan.
“What now, you ask! What do you think? You will give me Stonewycke, and in my compassion I will allow you to live. If you refuse me, I will have you all killed, here and now, while Jo flies back to Stonewycke to claim the inheritance as your daughter!”
A soft voice came from the couch, speaking to him for the first time. “Jason,” it said quietly.
Channing stopped and turned his head. His gaze was arrested by a penetrating stare from the eyes he had dreamed of so long. Deeply they probed his mind, unflinching, commanding his own eyes to remain and not look away. Gradually an involuntary twitch of mental distress began to flit about the edges of his mouth.
“Jason,” the voice beckoned again. “It is I you want. Is that not true?” Still her eyes held his.
“You are all I have ever wanted,” he replied, the tenacity of his will losing its grip.
“Now you have me, Jason. I am here . . .” As she spoke he was helpless to resist the magnetism of her eyes. “Let my family go, Jason.”
“I—I cannot . . . he will—”
“No harm will come to you, Jason, I assure you. None of us would hurt you. We care about you, Jason.”
“Care about me? Why, that’s—but . . . but of course you do! You must! I am the new master of Stonewycke!” His voice contained none of its former power. His eyes fought to look away, but could not. She had gained mastery over him, and now held him fast.
“We do care about you, Jason,” she said, her voice still hushed, “in a way you perhaps cannot grasp. All of us in this room—”
But at last he succeeded in looking away, and the spell was broken.
“And care you shall! For I will soon be in Stonewycke . . . I am preparing for our journey even now! Come, Joanna,” he said, rising and grabbing his cane, “we are going by ship, just as we did last year from New York . . . only this time without that busybody, Mrs. Cupples!”
He made for the door. “Come, Joanna . . . come! The steamer is sailing this afternoon . . . We must gather our things!”
“You will take the treasure with you?”
“What’s that, my sweet?”
“The treasure, Jason . . . the treasure of Stonewycke.”
“Yes, yes . . . of course. I shan’t forget that! It must go back with us! I’ll go retrieve it now. Come! You must help me . . . it is heavy!”
She rose. He half grabbed her arm and led her with what force he could manage out the door. Once they were outside, the others rose also, exited the room, and followed slowly down the corridor. Emil trailed behind, still carrying the gun.