“Sure of that?” demanded Michael.
“Dead sure. I watched specially.”
Michael hesitated for a moment or two, considering the situation. Then his face cleared.
“I see it! I remember there’s a cave right below here, in the cliff-face. He’s gone to ground there. Half of you get through the barbed wire on the right; the rest take the left side. Line up on the banks when you get down to the water. He may swim for it yet if we don’t hurry.”
They raced off to carry out his instructions, while Michael pulled up the rope and flung it on the terrace.
“That cuts off his escape in this direction,” he said to himself. “Now we can dig him out at leisure.”
Without hurrying, he made his way down to the water.
“There used to be a raft of sorts here,” he explained. “If we can rout it out, we’ll be able to ferry across to the cave-mouth without much bother. I doubt if he’ll show fight once we lay our hands on him; for he hasn’t an earthly chance of getting away.”
He poked about among the sedge on the rim of the lakelet and at last discovered the decrepit raft.
“This thing’ll just bear two of us. Do we dig the beggar out or starve him out? Dig him out, eh? Well, I want someone to go with me. Here, you, Frankie”—he turned to the Prehistoric Man—“you’d better come along. If it comes to a ducking, you’ve got fewer clothes to spoil than the rest of us.”
Nothing loath, the Prehistoric Man scrambled aboard the raft, which sank ominously under the extra weight.
“I can’t find anything to pole with,” grumbled Michael. “Paddle with your flippers, Frankie. It’s the only thing to do. Get busy with it.”
Under this primitive method of propulsion, the progress of the raft was slow; but at last they succeeded in bringing it under the cliff-face, after which they were able to work it along by hand. Gradually they manoeuvred it into position in front of the cave-mouth, which stood only a yard or so above water-level. Michael leaned forward to the entrance.
“You may as well come out quietly,” he warned the inmate. “It’s no good trying to put up a fight. You haven’t a dog’s chance.”
There was no reply of any sort.
“Hold the damned raft steady, Frankie! You nearly had me overboard,” expostulated Michael. “I’m going to light a match. The cave’s as black as the pit, and I can see nothing.”
He pulled a silver matchbox from his trousers pocket.
“Lucky I hadn’t this in my coat; for you don’t look as if you had a pocket of any sort on you, Frankie.”
The first match, damped by the moisture on his hands, sputtered and died out.
“Hurry up, Guvnor,” shouted Mephistopheles, cheerfully, from the bank. “Don’t keep us up all night with your firework display. It’s getting a bit chilly, paddling about amongst this sedge. Not at all the temperature I’m accustomed to at home.”
Michael felt for another match and lighted it successfully. Standing up on the raft, he held the light above his head and peered into the cavity in the rock. The Prehistoric Man heard him exclaim in amazement.
“Damnation, Frankie! He’s not here! It’s hardly a cave at all.”
He put his hands on the cave floor.
“Hold tight with the raft. I’m going in to make sure.”
He scrambled up into the hollow; but almost immediately his face appeared again in the moonlight.
“Nothing here. The hole’s barely big enough to take me in.”
“Then where’s he gone?” demanded the Prehistoric Man, who was a creature of few words.
“I dunno! Must have given us the slip somehow. If he isn’t here, he must be somewhere else. No getting round that.”
He shouted the news to the watchers on the banks; and a confused sound of argument rose from amongst the sedge.
“Not much use hanging round the old home, Frankie. Pull for shore, sailor. We’d best manhandle her along the face of the cliff. I’ve had enough of that paddling.”
When they touched firm ground again they were surrounded by their friends, most of whom seemed to doubt whether the search of the cave had been properly carried out.
“I tell you,” declaimed the exasperated Michael, “I got right into the damned hole! It’s so small that I nearly broke my nose against the back wall as I heaved myself inside. It would have been a tight fit for me and a squirrel together. He’s not there, whether you like it or not. … I can’t help your troubles, Tommy; you can go and look for yourself, if you like the job of lying on your tummy on a raft that’s awash. I shan’t interfere with your simple pleasures.”
“But …”
“We’ve lost him. Is that plain enough? There’s nothing to be done but go home again with our tails between our legs. I’m going now.”
He accompanied his friends to the top of the cliff again; but when he reached the terrace a fresh thought struck him, and he loitered behind while the others, soaked and disconsolate, made their way down into the pinewood. When the last of them had disappeared, Michael retraced his steps to the edge of the cliff.
“He reached here all right,” he assured himself. “And he didn’t break back through the cordon.”
He stooped down, picked up the rope, and refastened it round one of the pillars of the balustrade.
“Everyone knows there are secret passages about Ravensthorpe,” he mused. “Perhaps this beggar has got on to one of them. And quite possibly the end of the passage is in that cave down there. That would explain the rope. I’ll slide down and have another look round.”
He got into the cave-mouth without difficulty and used up the remainder of his matches in a close examination of the interior of the cavity; but even the closest scrutiny failed to reveal anything to his eyes.
“Nothing there but plain rock, so far as I can see,” he had to admit to himself as the last match burned out. “That’s a
