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 around 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.
“… Tonight, my dear, tonight … 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 tonight. …”
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 up 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 toward the girl, and Margaret had time to make a more prolonged scrutiny.
Near the table were three or four suitcases, 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 paralyzed, 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 growing lighter, and with a gasp of horror she realized that, in the confusion of the moment, she had taken the wrong direction and she was running toward the great cave, possibly into the old madman’s hands.
She heard the quick patter of footsteps behind her and flew on. And now she was in the almost bright light of the huge cavern. There was nobody in sight, and she followed the twisting ledge that ran under the wall of rock until she came to the foot of the long stairs. And then she heard a shout. Somebody on the boat had seen her. As she stood motionless with fear, mad John Flack appeared. He was coming toward her through the passage by which she and Brill had reached the interior of the cave. For a second he stared at her as though she were some ghastly apparition of his mad dreams, and then with a roar he leaped toward her.
She hesitated no longer. In a second, she was flying up that awful staircase, death on her right hand, but a more hideous fate behind. Higher and higher up those unrailed stairs—she dared not look, she dared not think; she could only keep looking steadfastly upward into
