'Where? How?'
'In his grave,' said Chefano.
Bruce Duncan groaned as he realized the significance of those words.
CHAPTER XXXII. BURIED ALIVE
BRUCE DUNCAN lay on the stone floor, watching the preparations for his interment. He was bound now, his wrists and ankles held with stout rope. He had been gagged with a handkerchief. Frenchy sat upon his body to prevent him from moving about. Duncan's captor appeared to view the proceedings as a huge entertainment.
Chefano ordered Jupe to the corner where the boxes lay. The ape-man carried one of the improvised coffins with ease and laid it on the floor beside Duncan.
'Take it outside, Jupe,' ordered Chefano. 'Out by the big hole I dug.'
The monster obeyed. While he was gone, Chefano produced three shovels, a bag of nails and two hammers, which he muffled with cloth.
'I'm sorry old Coffran isn't here to-night,' said Chefano. 'He would enjoy this.'
Jupe returned. At Chefano's command, he picked up Duncan's body and flung it across his shoulder.
Chefano uttered his hissing whistle.
'Don't hurt him, Jupe,' he said.
Frenchy took the lead, holding Duncan's loaded automatic at the ready in his overcoat pocket. Then came Chefano with a shovel, nails, and a hammer.
Jupe followed, toting the prisoner. Bound helplessly, Bruce Duncan shivered as the party entered the graveyard. He was resigned to his fate, yet he regretted that he had not shot Chefano and the ape-man the instant he had walked into their underground den. He was going to a horrible death - one to which none but fiends would assign a living creature.
Chefano, with Frenchy standing guard, made a cursory examination of the coffin. Then he whistled for Jupe to fetch his human burden.
For a moment, the ape-man hesitated. It seemed as though the eerie place were occupied by more than just the four of them. Not that Jupe saw any other. It was more a dread, oppressive feeling that called to some primitive sense. As though intense, boring eyes were fastening themselves upon him with tentacles of doom. And there among the night's haunting shadows, there seemed to be a greater, all-enveloping shadow.
Chefano whistled again. It was not for Jupe, the ape-man, to think. With his burden, he shambled forward.
Jupe, with Chefano standing by, carefully placed Bruce in the pine-board box. Looking upward, the bound man could see the white mausoleum, looming like death itself.
'Are you comfortable?' hissed Chefano in a jeering whisper. 'I hope you like your bed; you will sleep in it for a long, long time.'
'A long, long while,' echoed Frenchy.
'Get the cover,' hissed Chefano. His voice seemed part of the whistling wind.
Frenchy prepared to place the top portion of the crude coffin in position.
'Not yet,' said Chefano. 'We're going to give him a fighting chance.' The man's voice seemed to laugh in sinister fashion. 'We'll let him call for help. Let him force his way out. Through the cover, up through six feet of earth!'
He drew a knife from his pocket. He turned the flash on Duncan's prostrate form. He cut the rope about the prisoner's ankles, then the rope at the wrists, which were beneath Duncan's body. This did not effect a release; Bruce struggled but found the ropes did not yield immediately.
Chefano carefully severed the handkerchief with which Bruce was gagged. The man in the coffin turned his head and tried to loosen the choking cloth.
'Quick,' hissed Chefano. 'The cover.'
THE flat top of the coffin came in place above. It seemed to shut Bruce off from the rest of the world.
Even the sighing wind had ceased. Bruce Duncan felt terribly imprisoned, and his thoughts brought horror.
Dull sounds came from above. They were driving nails with the muffled hammers!
Bruce tried to roll about. His struggle was desperate. If he could fight clear of the bonds, he might force the cover before they had it nailed! The ropes were yielding under his frenzied efforts. The gag had loosened and was slipping beneath his chin.
'Help!'
His cry seemed hopeless. Muffled within the coffin, overwhelmed by the wind! A faint cry far from human aid. Perhaps Vincent and the Englishman had discovered his absence. They might be coming to save him! Bruce was delirious enough to believe almost anything, yet even that one hope seemed futile.
He had one hand loose and was pressing against the top of the coffin. The board was heavy, yet it seemed to bend. But now they were lifting the coffin, carrying it to the grave!
It was going down, down, down - slowly down, with ropes beneath it. The thought stunned Bruce momentarily. His mind seemed apart from his body. He was thinking of other things while he shouted and beat against the top of the box.
He writhed and turned on his side. Both hands were free; his ankles were almost loosened. He tried to get on his knees to brace his back against the cover.
Thud! It was dirt upon the coffin. The noise was repeated - again and again. Bruce was no longer shouting for aid, no longer fighting wildly. Somehow the terrible situation had calmed his feverish mind.
He was making one concentrated, superhuman effort to gain his freedom.
Bracing on hands and knees, he pushed against the top of the pine box, almost confident that he could force it. But now the weight was terrific. The thudding had ceased; there was no noise from above. He realized that Chefano and Frenchy, aided by the imitative Jupe, had been piling on the soft earth with terrific speed.
He sank to the floor of the box, exhausted. He could no longer struggle. It seemed that he was being crushed, pressed beneath tremendous weight. Even the air seemed thick - almost solid. Such blackness!
He could feel it!
One last vague desire gripped Bruce Duncan's mind. Death was near. If he could only hear a final sound from the world above! His gasps seemed to echo through the box in which he lay. He made a great effort to hold his breath while he listened.
His hope was rewarded. He heard a sound. Not from above, but at the side. Loose dirt, forced down by the earth above; dirt, rattling beside the box in which he lay. He gasped.
The sound came again - at the side and near the end. It was a scratching sound. It became more definite than that! Something was striking against the end of the box!
Bruce heard a muffled, clicking noise. Then came a squeak, that sounded as though a nail was being pulled from wood. He extended one hand and pressed it against the end of the box. He felt a vibration.
The end of the coffin was moving outward! What did it mean? What was causing it?
He pressed again, and the end seemed to yield. Again he heard the muffled clicking. Then came a soft, sibilant whisper - a strange, creepy whisper - a voice in the grave!
Bruce shuddered. It was death, he thought. At first he could not distinguish the words, but as he listened, they came plainly.
'Lie still,' said the voice. 'You are safe. Be calm.'
HE obeyed the command. Some strange being had spoken from the depths below ground. The voice was weird, yet encouraging. Bruce did not move. He breathed deeply. The air seemed clearer.
'Press it' came the hissing whisper. 'Press outward!'
Bruce obeyed. The end of the box moved a full inch. It was on a slant, and as it yielded, he heard the rasping sound of slipping nails.
'Press slowly,' came the whisper. It seemed vague and quiet now.
Bruce used his hands carefully, half wondering whether the whole event was real. The rough wood scraped his fingers; he was sure that he was neither dreaming nor dying.
'Stop!'
There was a slight jolt at the end of the coffin. Reaching out cautiously, Bruce found that the end of the box
