Terror keep
reached. Leaving Margaret, Brill groped his way into the nearest. He
was gone half an hour before he returned with a story of failure.
“The whole cliff is absolutely bored with rock passages,” he said. “I
gave it up because it is impossible to go far without a light.”
The second opening promised better. The floor was even, and it had
this advantage that it ran straight in line with the mouth of the
cave, and there was light for a considerable distance. She followed
him along this passage.
“It is worth trying,” he said, and she nodded her agreement.
They had not gone far before he discovered something which he had
overlooked on his first trip. At regular intervals there were niches
in the wall. He had noticed these, but had failed to observe their
extraordinary regularity. The majority were blocked with loose stone,
but he found one that had not been so guarded, and felt his way round
the wall. It was a square, cell-like chamber, so exactly proportioned
that it must have been created by the hand of man. He came back to
announce his intention of exploring the next of the closed cells.
“These walls haven’t been built up for nothing,” he told her, and
there was a note of suppressed excitement in his voice.
The farther they progressed, the poorer and more inadequate was the
light. They had to feel their way along the wall until the next recess
was reached. Flat slabs of rock, laid one on the other, had been piled
up in the entrance, and the work of removing the top layers was a
painful one. Margaret could not help him. She sat with her back to the
wall and fell into the uneasy sleep of exhaustion. She had almost
ceased to be hungry, though her throat was parched with a maddening
thirst. She woke heavily and found Brill shaking her shoulder.
“I’ve been inside”--his voice was quavering with excitement. “Hold out
your hands, both together!”
She obeyed mechanically, and felt something cold drip into her palms,
and, drooping her head, drank. The sting of the wine took her breath
away.
“Champagne,” he whispered. “Don’t drink too much or you’ll get tight!”
She sipped again. Never had wine tasted so delicious.
“It’s a storehouse; boxes of food, I think, and hundreds of bottles of
wine. Hold your hands.”
He poured more wine into her palms; most of it escaped through her
fingers, but she drank eagerly the few drops that remained.
“Wait here.”
She was very much awake now; peered into the darkness towards the
place where he had disappeared. Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour
passed, and then to her joy there appeared from behind the stony
barrier, revealing in silhouette the hole through which Brill had
crawled, a white and steady light. She heard the crack and crash of a
box being opened, saw the bulk of the detective as he appeared in the
hole, and in a second he was by her side.
“Biscuits,” he said. “Luckily the box was labelled.”
“What was the light?” she asked, as she seized the crackers eagerly.
“A small battery lantern; I knocked it over as I was groping. The
place is simply stocked with grub! Here’s a drink for you.”
He handed her a flat, round tin, guided her finger to the hole he had
punched.
“Preserved milk--German and good stuff,” he said.
She drank thirstily, not taking her lips from the tin until it was
empty.
“This seems to be the ship’s store,” he said, “but the great blessing
is the lamp. I’m going in to see if I can find a box of refills; there
isn’t a great deal of juice left in the battery.”
His search occupied a considerable time, and then she saw the light go
out and her heart sank, until the light flashed up again, this time
more brilliant than ever. He scrambled out and dropped down the rugged
wall and pushed something heavy into her hand.
“A spare lamp,” he said. “There are half a dozen there, and enough
refills to last us a month.”
He struck the stone wall with something that clanged.
“A case-opener,” he explained, “and a useful weapon. I wonder which of
these storehouses holds the guns?”
The exploration of the passage could now be made in comparative
comfort. There was need of the lamps, for a few yards further on the
tunnel turned abruptly to the right, and the floor became more
irregular. Brill turned on his light and showed the way. Now the
passage turned to the left, and he pointed out how smooth were the
walls.
“Water action,” he said. “There must have been a subterranean river
here at some time.”
Twisting and turning, the gallery led now up, now down, now taking
almost a hairpin turn, now sweeping round in an almost perfect curve,
but leading apparently nowhere.
Brill was walking ahead, the beam of his lamp sweeping along the
ground, when she saw him stop suddenly, and, stooping, he picked
something from the ground.
“How the dickens did this get here?”
On the palm of his hand lay a bright silver florin, a little battered
at the edge, but unmistakably a two-shilling piece.
“Somebody has been here----” he began, and then she uttered a cry.
“Oh!” gasped Margaret. “That was Mr. Reeder’s!”
She told him of the incident at the well; how J. G. Reeder had dropped
the coin to test the distance. Brill put the light of his lamp on the
ceiling; it was solid rock. And then he sent the rays moving along,
and presently the lamp focussed on a large round opening.
“Here is the well that never was a well,” he said grimly; and flashing
the light upward, looked open-mouthed at the steel rungs fitted every
few inches in the side of the well.
“A ladder,” he said slowly. “What do you know about that?”
He reached up, standing on tiptoe, but the nearest rung was at least a
yard beyond his hand, and he looked round for some loose stones which
he could pile and from the top of which he could reach the lowest bar
of the ladder. But none was in sight, except a few splinters of stone
which were valueless for his purpose. And then he remembered the
case-opener; it had a hook at the end, and, holding this above his
head, he leapt. The first time he missed; the second time the hook
caught the steel rung and the handle slipped from his grip, leaving
the case-opener dangling. He rubbed his hands on the dusty floor and
sprang again. This time he caught and held, and with a superhuman
effort pulled himself up until his hand gripped the lower rung.
Another struggle, and he had drawn himself up hand over hand till his
feet rested on the bar.
“Do you think if I pulled you up you have strength to climb?” he
asked.
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid not. Go up alone; I will wait here.”
“Keep clear of the bottom,” he warned her. “I may not fall, but as
likely as not I shall dislodge a few chunks of rock in my progress.”
The warning was well justified, she found. There was a continuous
shower of stone and earth as he progressed. From time to time he
stopped to rest. Once he shouted down something which she could not
distinguish. It was probably a warning, for a few seconds later a mass
of rock as large as a man’s head crashed down and smashed on the
floor, sending fragments flying in all directions.
Peeping up from time to time, she could see the glimmer of his lamp
growing fainter; and now, left alone, she began to grow nervous, and
for company switched on her light. She had hardly done so when she
heard a sound which brought her heart to her mouth. It was the sound
of footsteps; somebody was walking along the passage towards her.
She turned the switch of the lamp and listened. The old man’s voice!
Only his, and none other. He was talking to himself, a babble of
growling sound that was becoming more and more distinct. And then, far
away, she saw the glow of a reflected light, for the passage swept
round at this point and he would not be visible until he was upon her.
Slipping off her shoes, she sped along in the darkness, tumbling and
sliding on the uneven pathway. After a while panic left her and she
stopped and looked back. The light was no longer visible; there was
neither sound nor sign of him; and, plucking up courage, after a few
minutes she retraced her steps. She dared not put on the light, and
must guess where the well opening was. In the darkness she passed it,
and she was soon a considerable distance beyond the place where Brill
had left her.
Where had Flack gone? There were no side passages. She was standing by
one of the recesses, her hand resting on the improvised stone screen,
when to her horror she felt it moving away from her, and had just time
to shrink back when she saw a crack of light appear on the opposite
wall and broaden until there was outlined the shape of a doorway.
“… To-night, my dear, to-night.… I’m going up to see Daver. Daver is
worrying me… you are sure nothing has happened that might shake my
confidence in him?”
“Nothing, father. What could have happened?”
It was Olga Crewe’s voice. She said something else which Margaret
could not hear, and then she heard the chuckling laugh of the old man.
“Reeder? He’s busy in London! But he’ll be back to-night…”
Again a question which Margaret could not catch.
“The body hasn’t been found. I didn’t want to hurt the girl, but she
was useful… my best card.… I could have caught Reeder with her--had it
all arranged.”
Another question.
“I suppose so. The tide is very high. Anyway, I saw her fall…”
Margaret knew they were talking about her, but this interested her
less than the possibility of discovery. She walked backward, step by
step, hoping and praying that she would find a niche into which she
could shrink. Presently she found what she wanted.
Flack had come out into the passage and was standing talking back into
the room.
“All right, I’ll leave the door open… imagination. There’s plenty of
air. The well supplies that. I’ll be back this evening.”
She dared not look, but after a while his footsteps became fainter.
The door was still open, and she saw a shadow growing larger on the
opposite wall, as Olga approached the entrance. Presently she heard a
sigh; the shadow became small again, and finally disappeared. Margaret
crept forward, hardly daring to breathe, until she came behind the
open door.
It was, she guessed, made of stout oak, and the surface had been so
cunningly camouflaged with splinters of rock that it differed in no
respect from the walled recess into which Brill had broken.
Curiosity is dominant in the most rational of individuals, and,
despite her terrible danger, Margaret was curious to see the inside of
that rocky home of the Flacks. With the utmost caution she peeped
round. She was surprised at the size of the room and a little
disappointed in its furnishing. She had pictured rich rugs and
gorgeous furniture, the walls perhaps covered with silken hangings.
Instead, she saw a plain deal table on which stood a lamp, a strip of
threadbare carpet, two basket chairs, and a camp bed. Olga was
standing by the table, looking down at a newspaper; her back was
towards the girl, and Margaret had time to make a more prolonged
scrutiny.
Near the table were three or four suit-cases, packed and strapped as
though in preparation for a journey. A fur coat lay across the bed,
and that was the only evidence of luxury in this grim apartment. There
was a second person in the room. Margaret distinguished in the shadow
the drooping figure of a woman--Mrs. Burton.
She took a step forward to see better; her feet slipped upon the
smooth surface of the rock, and she fell forward against the door,
half closing it.
“Who is there? Is that you, father?”
Margaret’s heart nearly stopped beating, and for a moment she stood
paralysed, incapable of movement. Then, as Olga’s footsteps sounded,
she turned and fled along the passage, gripping tight her lantern.
Olga’s voice challenged her, but on and on she ran. The corridor was