For half an hour the two men were engaged in the room from which Poltavo had been taken. They probed with centre bits and gimlets into every portion of the room.
The first discovery that they made was that the oaken panels of the chamber were backed with sheet iron or steel.
“It is a hopeless job; we shall have to get another kind of smith here to tear down all the panellings,” said T. B., lighting the gloom of his despair with a little flash of humour.
He fingered the tiny locket absently and opened it again.
“It is absurd,” he laughed helplessly. “Here is the solution in these simple words, and yet we brainy folk from the Yard cannot understand them!”
“God sav the Keng!” said Ela ruefully. “I wonder how on earth that is going to help us.”
A gasp from T. B. made him turn his face to his chief.
T. B. Smith was pointing at the piano. In two strides he was across the room, and sitting on the stool he lifted the cover and struck a chord. The instrument sounded a little flat and apparently had not received the attention of a tuner for some time.
“I am going to play ‘God Save the King,’ ” said T. B. with a light in his eyes, “and I think something is going to happen.”
Slowly he pounded forth the familiar tune; from beginning to end he played it, and when he had finished he looked at Ela.
“Try it in another key,” suggested Ela, and again T. B. played the anthem. He was nearing the last few bars when there was a click and he leapt up. One long panel had disappeared from the side of the wall. For a moment the two men looked at one another. They were alone in the house, although a policeman was within call. The main force was gathered in the vicinity of the Secret House.
T. B. flashed the light of his indispensable and inseparable little electric lamp into the dark interior.
“I will go in first and see what happens,” he said.
“I think we will both go together,” said Ela grimly.
“There is a switch here,” said T. B.
He pulled it down and a small lamp glowed, illuminating a tiny lift cage.
“And here I presume are the necessary controlling buttons,” said T. B., pointing to a number of white discs; “we will try this one.”
He pressed the button and instantly the cage began to fall. It came to a standstill after a while and the men stepped out.
“Part of the old working,” said T. B.; “a very ingenious idea.”
He flashed his lamp over the walls to find the electrical connection. They were here, as they were at the other end, perfectly accessible. An instant later the long corridor was lighted up.
“By heavens,” said T. B. admiringly, “they have even got an underground tramway; look here!”
At this tiny terminus there were two branches of rails and a car was in waiting. A few minutes later T. B. Smith had reached the other end of the mine gallery and was seeking the second elevator.
“Here we are,” he said—“everything run by electricity. I thought that power house of Farrington’s had a pretty stiff job, and now I see how heavy is the load which it has to carry. Step carefully into this,” he continued, “and make a careful note of the way we are going. I think we must be about a hundred feet below the level of the earth; just gauge it roughly as we go up. Here we go.”
He pressed a button and up went the lift. They passed out of the little mine chamber, carefully propping back the swing door, and made their way along the corridor.
“This looks like an apartment,” said T. B., as he stopped before a red-painted steel door in one of the walls. He pressed it gently, but it did not yield. He made a further examination, but there was no keyhole visible.
“This is either worked by a hidden spring or it does not work at all,” he said in a low voice.
“If it is a spring,” said Ela, “I will find it.”
His sensitive hands went up and down the surface of the door and presently they stopped.
“There is something which is little larger than a pin hole,” he said. He took from his pocket a general utility knife and slipped out a thin steel needle. “Pipe cleaners may be very useful,” he said, and pressed the long slender bodkin into the aperture. Instantly, and without sound, the door opened.
T. B. was the first to go in, revolver in hand. He found himself in a room which, even if it were a prison, was a well-disguised prison. The walls were hung with costly tapestry, the carpet under foot was thick and velvety and the furniture which garnished the room was of a most costly and luxurious description.
“Lady Constance!” gasped T. B. in surprise.
A woman who was sitting in a chair near the reading lamp rose quickly and turned her startled gaze to the detective.
“Mr. Smith,” she said, and ran towards him. “Oh, thank God you have come!”
She grasped him by his two arms; she was half hysterical in that moment of her release, and was babbling an incoherent string of words; a description of her capture—her fear—her gratitude—all in an inextricably confused rush of half completed phrases.
“Sit down, Lady Constance,” said T. B. gently; “collect yourself and try to remember—have you seen Poltavo?”
“Poltavo?” she said, startled into coherence. “No, is he here?”
“He is somewhere here,” said T. B. “I am seeking for him now. Will you stay here or will you come with us?”
“I would rather come with you,” she said with a shiver.
They passed through the door together.
“Do all these doors open upon rooms similar to this?” asked T. B.
“I believe there are
