We let the lift rise by inches, until it was back in its place, and then, with one accord, we turned to the door.
This was unfastened and brought us directly into what seemed a great hall.
For a moment I thought we were out, for I heard the gurgle of water as plain as could be, but then I perceived that the air was the air of a crypt, dank and something musty and very still.
After listening carefully, we ventured to light the torch.
The place was a kitchen, but had not been used as such for a number of years. There was the huge fireplace, with the chains for the spits hanging down, and a grate like a hayrack to serve a dozen joints. Five great, shuttered windows were looking upon the courtyard, and a doorway, whose step was muddy, was in the same wall.
And on the hearth lay George Hanbury, with his wrists and his ankles bound and a gag in his mouth.
That George had been left there to live, if he could, but, if he could not, to die we had not much doubt. He had lain there, gagged and bound, for twenty-four hours: his bonds had never been loosened, he had been given no water, much less any food: he had not so much as been visited. And such as will so use a prisoner are scarcely like to be troubled to find him dead.
Happily George was strong, and his condition of health as fine as ours, and, when we had set him free and had chafed his limbs, he was able to rise and to walk as straight as he pleased. It was clear, however, that he must have food and drink, and, since there remained in the Closet some brandy and bread and meat, we made our way back to the cellar without delay.
By using the windlass, we had the lift down at once, but, when I would have gone up, Mansel put me aside.
“I’m going,” he said. “And please give me full five minutes before you bring me down. Now that one’s got to go back, he may as well cover our tracks: the pile of chairs doesn’t matter, but that slab would make anyone think.”
With that, he mounted the lift, and I hoisted him up.
And while he was gone, George Hanbury told me his tale.
“When the car came out of the castle, I was down by the beechwoods at the foot of the cliff. Rowley was with me, but Carson and Bell and Tester were on guard, within sound of the drive.
“Carson heard the car coming, and the moment it passed he gave chase. I don’t know whether they had expected this, but they did the best they could think of to shake him off. Of course they failed. They didn’t bother much about the foot of the cliff: they certainly went that way, for I saw them go by, but they passed at sixty and never so much as slowed up. The sight of them worried me, but I didn’t see what I could do but stay where I was. Of course Carson could have caught them, but, as Bell and he were alone, he thought he couldn’t do better than cling to their heels. For half an hour they had the devil’s own luck—never a check. Then comes a hairpin bend, and two hundred yards further on a flock of sheep. …
“When Carson rounded the corner, Bunch was fifty yards off and turning his car. Sheep or no, it was an excellent move. The car has a shortish wheelbase, but a Rolls takes some getting round. Then Carson did well. He stopped, went into reverse and started to back to a turning he’d marked at the top of the hill. Before he could get there, Bunch was coming like hell. There was Punter beside him, and Casemate was back in the car. As they went by, Punter fired full at Carson and hit the brim of his hat. …
“This annoyed Carson and Bell, and I must say I’m not surprised. And, as soon as the Rolls was round, they put her along. By this time Bunch had stolen a bit of a start, but they gradually overhauled him, and, choosing a smooth bit of going, Bell took a shot at their tank. He didn’t hit it that time, but he laid it open the next. …
“It was now a matter of time and nothing else. Bunch might do another three miles, but he couldn’t do more, so Carson fell back a little, to keep, as he judged, out of range. Considering they’d fired again and made a hole in the screen, I think he was wise.
“They were now not more than six miles from the foot of the cliff, and heading that way. The road was full of bends, so half the time the cars were out of each other’s sight. You can guess what happened. Three miles on Carson rounded a bend to see the car, doors open, by the side of the road. Of course, he put down his foot and went by a blue streak. Two shots were fired, but they didn’t do any harm.
“Then Carson drove back to the spur, and he hadn’t been there ten minutes when I came in. I was as pleased as Punch when I heard his report. I assumed they’d gone out to get food: and now their car was done in, and they were cut off. We fairly picketed that spur. A ferret couldn’t have passed the line we held. …
“Bell and I visited the beechwoods at three. I hated leaving the spur, but it didn’t seem prudent for one to go out alone. We saw no one, and, when we got back, Carson had nothing to report.
“At last it began to grow dark, and I had to face two fresh facts. The first was this. According to plan, one of the cars must now leave for the foot of the cliff
