THE GUARDS BEGAN ESCORTING Pendergast down from the attic room. He shuffled along clumsily, hindered by the chains binding his legs and arms.
“Hurry up,” one guard said, poking him in the back with his rifle.
“My dear fellow, I would like to see you move nimbly while shackled like an ape,” Pendergast responded, slowing even further.
One of the guards snickered and imitated his upper-crust New Orleans drawl—“My dear fellow”—before giving him another push. “You can move faster than that.”
Pendergast, who knew the mansion well, guessed he was being taken to the library, where no doubt Leng would join him. The house was laid out almost exactly as it would be in his day—but the fixtures, decoration, and wallpaper were, of course, very different. The most striking change was the lack of electricity: the house was lit with glowing gas mantles in frosted glass globes, which cast a mellower light than the electric bulbs of the future.
The shortest route from the attic to the library would involve descending three floors, and along the way it would go past a small, windowless room on the third level that served as a music chamber, where musicians could practice or tune up without bothering people on the lower floors. As they passed by the door to that room, Pendergast abruptly veered into it, opening it with his shackled hands and then pivoting to slam the door shut and wedge it in place with his foot.
There was a moment of consternation as the guards pounded on the door, at last forcing it open. They rushed in, shouting and waving their weapons and surrounding him—Pendergast had barely had time to reach the far side of the darkened room—one smacking him across the face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the lead guard asked, seizing Pendergast by the shackled hands and dragging him back out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
“You can’t fault a man for trying to escape,” Pendergast said meekly.
This brought a round of laughter. “Some escape!”
“My dear fellow,” another mimicked again.
More laughter. He was manhandled down the rest of the stairs, through the drawing room and salon, then past the archway leading to the library.
“Bind him,” the lead guard said.
They hauled Pendergast over to a freshly installed iron post inside the library, locking his feet to its base and his hands to loops welded higher up. Then the two stepped back, rifles trained on him.
“Tell the boss he’s here,” said the lead guard, who had been supervising.
One of the guards left while the other took up a position by the door. A moment later, the first guard returned with Leng.
Now Pendergast looked on as Leng sauntered into the room and took a seat in a wing chair. He adjusted himself, took out a cigar, trimmed and lit it, then settled back, turning intently toward Pendergast. The guards backed off, rifles leveled.
“I’m sorry,” Leng said. “I’d offer you a seat—but you’re a slippery devil, and I can’t feel easy unless you’re chained to that post. Now, we are going to have a rather important conversation. Are you ready?”
*
While Leng was speaking, Pendergast noticed in his peripheral vision the flash of a single violet eye. It was shrouded in darkness, peering out for a brief moment from a tiny hole formed in the library’s intricate wallpaper. Then it vanished—and where it had been, only wallpaper remained.