His first instinct was to fly along the passage to safety, but somewhere in that awful void were two women. He switched on his light and crept gingerly back to the bench whence he had seen the catastrophe. But the rays of the lamp could not penetrate into the fog of dust for more than a few yards.
Crawling forward to the edge of the platform, he strove to pierce the darkness. All about him, above, below, on either side, a terrible cracking and groaning was going on, as though the earth itself was in mortal pain. Rocks, large and small, were falling from the roof; he heard the splash of them as they struck the water. One fell on the edge of the platform with a terrific din and bounced into the pit below.
“For God’s sake, don’t stay here, Mr. Reeder. You will be killed.”
It was Gray shouting at him, but J. G. Reeder was already feeling his way toward the steps which led down to where the boat had been moored, and to which he guessed it would drift. He had to hold the lamp almost at his feet. Breathing had become a pain. His face was covered with powder; his eyes smarted excruciatingly; dust was in his mouth, his nose; but still he went on—and was rewarded.
Out of the dust mist came groping the ghostly figure of a woman. It was Olga Crewe.
He gripped her by the arm as she swayed, and pushed her against the rocky wall.
“Where is your mother?” he shouted.
She shook her head and said something; he lowered his ear to her mouth.
“… boat … great rock … killed.”
“Your mother?”
She nodded. Gripping her by the arm, he half led, half dragged her up the stairs. He found Gray waiting at the top. As easily as though she were a child, Mr. Reeder caught her up in his arms and staggered the distance that separated them from the mouth of the passage.
The pandemonium of splintering rock and crashing boulder was continuous. The air was thicker than ever. Gray’s lamp went out, and Mr. Reeder’s was almost useless. It seemed a thousand years before they pushed into the mouth of the tunnel. The air was filled with dust even here, but as they progressed it grew clearer, more breathable.
“Let me down—I can walk,” said the husky voice of Olga Crewe, and Reeder lowered her gently to her feet.
She was very weak, but she could walk with the assistance that the two men afforded. They stopped at the entrance of the living room. Mr. Reeder wanted the lamp—wanted more the water which she suggested would be found in that apartment.
A cold draught of spring water worked wonders on the girl too.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said, “but when the cave opening fell in, I think we drifted toward the stage—we always called that place the stage. I was so frightened that I jumped immediately to safety, and I’d hardly reached the rock when I heard a most awful crash. I think a portion of the wall must have fallen on to the boat. I screamed, but hardly heard myself in the noise. This is punishment! This is punishment! I knew it would come! I knew it! I knew it!”
She covered her grimy face with her hands, and her shoulders shook in the excess of her sorrow and grief.
“There’s no sense in crying.” Mr. Reeder’s voice was sharp and stern. “Where is Miss Belman?”
She shook her head.
“Where did she go?”
“Up the stairway—Father said she escaped. Haven’t you seen her?” she asked, raising her tearful face as she began slowly to realize the drift of his question.
He shook his head, his narrowed eyes surveying her steadily.
“Tell me the truth, Olga Flack. Did Margaret Belman escape, or did your father—?”
She was shaking her head before he had completed his sentence, and then, with a little moan, she drooped and would have fallen had not Gray supported her.
“We had better leave the questioning till later.”
Mr. Reeder seized the lamp from the table and went out into the tunnel. He had hardly passed the door before there was a crash, and the infernal noises which had come from the cave were suddenly muffled. He looked backward, but could see nothing. He guessed what had happened.
“There is a general subsidence going on in this mass of earth,” he said. “We shall be lucky if we get away.”
He ran ahead to the opening of the well, and a glad sight met his eyes. On the floor lay a coil of new rope, to which was attached a body belt. He did not see the thin wire which came down from the mouth of the well, but presently he detected a tiny telephone receiver that the engineers had lowered. This he picked up, and his hail was immediately answered.
“Are you all right? Up here it feels as if there’s an earthquake somewhere.”
Gray was fastening the belt about the girl’s waist, and after it was firmly buckled:
“You mustn’t faint—do you understand, Miss Crewe? They will haul you up gently, but you must keep away from the side of the well.”
She nodded, and Reeder gave the signal. The rope grew taut, and presently the girl was drawn up out of sight.
“Up you go,” said Reeder.
Gray hesitated.
“What about you, sir?”
For answer Mr. Reeder pointed to the lowest rung, and, stooping, gripped the leg of the detective and, displaying an unsuspected strength, lifted him bodily so that he was able to grip the lower rung.
“Fix your belt to the rod, hold fast to the nearest rung, and I will climb up over you,” said Mr. Reeder.
Never an acrobat moved with greater nimbleness than this man who so loved to pose as an ancient. There was need for hurry. The very iron to which he was clinging trembled and vibrated in his grasp. The fall of stone down the well was continuous and constituted a very real danger. Some of the rungs, displaced by the earth
