Holding on to a rung of the ladder, he put out his hand. The opposite wall, which should have been well beyond his reach, was at less than arm’s length away!
The well was bulging under unexpected and tremendous stresses.
“Why have you stopped?” asked Gray anxiously.
“To scratch my head,” snarled Reeder. “Hurry!”
They climbed another forty or fifty feet, when from below came a rumble and a crash that set the whole well shivering.
They could see starlight now, and distant objects, which might be heads, that overhung the mouth of the well.
“Hurry!” breathed J. G. Reeder, and moved as rapidly as his younger companion.
Boom!
The sound of a great gun, followed by a thunderous rumbling, surged up the well.
J. G. Reeder set his teeth. Please God, Margaret Belman had escaped from that hell—or was mercifully dead!
Nearer and nearer to the mouth they climbed, and every step they took was accompanied by some new and awful noise from behind them. Gray’s breath was coming in gasps.
“I can’t go any farther!” croaked the detective. “My strength has gone!”
“Go on, you miserable—” yelled Reeder, and whether it was the shock of hearing such violent language from so mild a man, or the discovery that he was within a few feet of safety, Gray took hold of himself, climbed a few more rungs, and then felt hands grip his arm and drag him to safety.
Mr. Reeder staggered out into the night air and blinked at the ring of men who stood in the light of a naphtha flare.
Was it his imagination, or was the ground swaying beneath his feet?
“Nobody else to come up, Mr. Reeder?”
The officer in charge of the engineers asked the question, and Reeder shook his head.
“Then all you fellows clear!” said the officer sharply. “Move toward the house and take the road to Siltbury—the cliff is collapsing in sections.”
The flare was put out, and the soldiers, abandoning their apparatus, broke into a steady run toward Larmes Keep.
“Where is the girl—Miss Crewe?” asked Reeder, suddenly remembering her.
“They’ve taken her to the house,” said Big Bill Gordon, who had made a mysterious appearance from nowhere. “And, Reeder, we have captured the gold convoy! The two men in charge were a fellow who calls himself Hothling and another named Dean—I think you know their real names. Caught them just as the lorry was driving into the quarry cave. This means a big thing for you—”
“To h⸺ with you and your big things!” stormed Reeder, in a fury. “What big things do I want, my man, but the big thing I have lost?”
Very wisely, Big Bill Gordon made no attempt to argue the matter.
They found the banqueting hall crowded with policemen, detectives, and soldiers. The girl had been taken into Daver’s office, and here he found her in the hands of the three women servants who had been commandeered to run the establishment while the police were in occupation. The dust had been washed from her face, and she was conscious, but still in the half-stupefied condition in which Reeder had found her.
She stared at him for a long time as though she did not recognize him and was striving to recall that portion of her past in which he had figured. When she spoke, it was to ask a question.
“There is no news of—Father?”
“None,” said Reeder, almost brutally. “I think it will be better for you, young lady, if he is dead.”
She nodded.
“He is dead,” she said with conviction. And then, rousing herself, she struggled to a sitting position and looked at the servants. Mr. Reeder interpreted that glance and sent the women away.
“I don’t know what you are going to do with me,” she said, “but I suppose I am to be arrested. I should be arrested, for I have known all that was happening, and I tried to lure you to your death.”
“In Bennett Street, of course,” said Mr. Reeder. “I recognized you the moment I saw you here—you were the lady with the rouged face.”
She nodded and continued:
“Before you take me away, I wish you would let me have some papers that are in the safe,” she said. “They have no value to anybody but myself.”
He was curious enough to ask her what they were.
“They were letters—in the big, flat box that is locked. Even Daver did not dare open that. You see, Mr. Reeder”—her breath came more quickly—“before I met my—husband, I had a little romance—the sort of romance that a young girl has when she is innocent enough to dream and has enough faith in God to hope. Is my husband arrested?” she asked suddenly.
Mr. Reeder was silent for a moment. Sooner or later, she must know the truth, and he had an idea that this awful truth would not cause her very much distress.
“Your husband is dead,” he said.
Her eyes opened wider.
“Did my father—”
“Your father killed him—I suppose so. I am afraid I was the cause. Coming back to find Margaret Belman, I told Daver all that I knew about your marriage. Your father must have been hiding behind the panelling and heard.”
“I see,” she said simply. “Of course it was Father who killed him—I knew that would happen as soon as he learned the truth. Would you think I was heartless if I said I am glad? I don’t think I am really glad—I’m just relieved. Will you get the box for me?”
She put her hand down her blouse and pulled out a gold chain at the end of which were two keys.
“The first of these is the key of the safe. If you want to see the—the letters, I will show them to you, but I would rather not.”
At that moment he heard hurrying footsteps in the passage outside; the door was pulled open and a young officer of engineers appeared.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but Captain Merriman
