"Now," said Warrender, moving to the front with his electric torch.

"You're lucky, Pratt; you're the only one of us who can walk upright."

"'Were I so tall to reach the pole,'" Pratt quoted.

"Shut up!" said Armstrong, in a murmur. "Every sound carries. You can recite your little piece when we're through with it."

Slowly, quietly, in pitch darkness, they groped their way. Warrender thought it prudent not to switch on his light. At the dry well they halted to listen once more. On again, until they reached the vaulted chamber at the end. From overhead came the dull regular thud of the working machine. This was a disappointment. They wondered how many men were above. Did the trap here give entrance to a cellar as in the cottage? Was the printing done in such a cellar, or on a higher floor?

They could not tell. The least movement of the flagstone might be noticed; they might be overwhelmed before they could emerge; but it was no time to weigh risks.

Armstrong went forward, and by a momentary flash from Warrender's torch saw the positions of the hand-grips. With infinite care he moved them round, and let the flagstone drop for a fraction of an inch. The sound from the machine was scarcely louder; only a subdued light shone through the crack. He lowered the stone noiselessly a little more; again a little more. The thuds continued; there was no other sound. No longer hesitating, Armstrong turned the stone over until it stood upright and peered over the edge of the cavity. He saw a large, dimly lit chamber, evidently underground, one side of which was filled with packing cases, crates and boxes. On the other side was a wooden staircase with a short return, giving access to the room from which came, more distinctly now, the thud of the printing press. It was only through the opening at the head of the staircase that light, apparently from a lamp, penetrated into the chamber.

Armstrong scrambled up; Warrender was following him, when the thuds suddenly ceased. The boys held their breath. Had they been heard in spite of their care? There was no movement above. Warrender signed to Pratt to clamber up. Whether from excitement, or because he was shorter than the others, Pratt dropped his stick, which fell with a crack upon the floor. A voice from above called out two or three words which none of the boys understood. They had the rising inflection of a question; the last seemed to be a name. With quick wit Pratt uttered a low-toned grunt as if in answer. Armstrong flung a glance at his companions--a look in which they read resolution and a claim for their support. Then he walked boldly up the stairs.

On turning the corner he saw the well-remembered figure of Jensen the Swede in his shirt-sleeves, bending over, examining the platen of a small hand printing press. No daylight penetrated into the room, which was illumined by a powerful lamp hanging from the ceiling. Jensen's back was towards the staircase. He did not at once look up; Pratt's grunt had apparently satisfied him; but he growled a few words in a tongue unknown to the boys, as if he was finding fault with the machine.

Receiving no answer, he glanced up. At the sight of Armstrong he remained for an instant in his bent position, motionless, as though turned to stone. Then he dashed towards the farther wall, where his coat hung from a nail.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE REMAINED FOR AN INSTANT IN HIS BENT POSITION, MOTIONLESS."]

His momentary hesitation was his undoing. Armstrong sprang after him.

Before the man could withdraw his hand from the coat pocket Armstrong struck down his left arm, raised instinctively to ward off a blow, with a smart stroke from his cudgel, following it up with a smashing left-hander between the eyes, which drove his head against the wall.

While he still staggered, Armstrong seized him about the middle and flung him to the floor, wrenching from his hand the automatic pistol he had taken from his pocket.

"Hold his legs," cried Armstrong to Warrender, who had joined him.

"Pratt, bring up some rope; there's plenty on the packing cases below."

The Swede heaved and writhed, but the firm hands of Armstrong and Warrender held him to the floor until Pratt had neatly bound his arms and legs. He filled the air with curses while the pinioning was a-doing.

Warrender caught up some sheets from the pile of paper that had already been printed, and twisting them into a wad, stuffed it between the man's teeth. Laid helpless against the wall, the Swede concentrated all the bitterness of his rage and resentment in his eyes, which followed every movement of his captors.

Armstrong had already shot the stout bolt that defended the heavy oaken door on the inside. Having disposed of their victim, they threw a hasty glance at the small hand press, the piles of paper, printed and unprinted; in their eagerness to achieve their purpose they did not stay to make a thorough examination.

"Jack, will you close the trap-door below and remain on guard here?"

said Warrender. "Take this fellow's pistol. You can spy out through a c.h.i.n.k in the boarding, and if you see any of the others coming, sing out."

"Righto," said Armstrong.

Pratt was already through the low doorway in the north-east corner of the room. Warrender followed him, and found himself at the foot of a dark stone staircase, which wound so rapidly that Pratt was even now out of sight. The stairs were much worn in the middle, and in their haste to ascend the boys were glad to avail themselves of the rope that ran along the inner wall, supported by rusty iron stanchions.

When they had mounted a score of steps by the light of Warrender's torch, they came to an open doorway giving access to a low room lined with bookcases, except on the eastern wall, where a window, closely boarded up, looked towards the Red House. A desk stood in the centre of the floor; there was no other furniture, no occupant, only an array of small tin cases along one of the walls. Going higher, they presently halted before a closed door, the top of which was only a few feet below the ma.s.sive timbers of the roof. Pratt turned the large iron ring; the door did not yield. He rapped smartly on the oak: there was no reply.

Stooping, he peeped through the enormous keyhole. The interior of the room was dark. Warrender held the torch to the hole.

"The door's four or five inches thick," said Pratt. "No wonder he can't hear--if this is the room. Bang with your spanner."

Warrender smote the door vigorously, Pratt listening at the keyhole.

There was no reply, but Pratt declared that he heard a slight movement, and putting his mouth to the keyhole he cried--

"Can you hear? We are friends."

Still there was no voice in answer. The only sound was a clanking of metal.

"Is your uncle deaf?" asked Warrender.

"He wasn't ten years ago. You try, Phil; your voice may carry better than mine."

"Are you Mr. Ambrose Pratt?" Warrender shouted, then turned his ear to the hole.

"Yes. Who are you?"

The words were spoken in tones so low and hollow that Warrender could scarcely distinguish them.

"Friends," he replied. "Your nephew Percy. Come to the door."

"What did you say?"

"Come--to--the--door!" Warrender bawled, s.p.a.cing out the words.

"Why do you mock me? You know I cannot."

Again came the clanking of metal.

"He must be deaf," said Pratt.

"We have come to help you," cried Warrender, slowly and distinctly.

"Can you open the door?"

"To help me!" The clanking was louder, more prolonged. "Are the villains gone? Who are you?"

"This is rotten," said Warrender to Pratt. "Shall I never make him understand? Please be still and listen," he called. "We are friends.

We have come to let you out. Can you help us?"

"No. The door is locked. That man Gradoff has the key, and I am chained."

"Good heavens!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Pratt. "Can we burst in the door?"

Standing on the narrow top step of the staircase, with winding stairs behind them, they were unable to bring any momentum to bear, and the pressure of their shoulders did not cause the heavy timber to yield a fraction of an inch. Warrender tried to force first the head of his spanner, then the narrower end of the handle between the door and the side-post. He failed.

"Get Jensen's pistol and blow it in," suggested Pratt.

Warrender hurried down the stairs. Returning with the pistol, he called through the keyhole--

"We will try to blow the lock in. Keep away from the line of fire."

"Fire away. I am at the side of the room," said the prisoner.

Warrender placed the muzzle in the keyhole and fired. There was the crack of shattered metal, but still the door did not yield. He fired a second time and pushed.

"It is giving. Shove!" he said.

Pratt turned his back to the door, and thrusting his feet as firmly as he could against the curving wall, he drove backwards with all his force. The fragments of the broken lock clattered upon the floor within, and the door swinging open suddenly, precipitated Pratt headlong into the room.