Pausing, the detectives now saw that the place was about fifty feet in diameter, with a vaulted roof, through a hole in which the smoke from a big log fire was pouring upward.

Upon the floor there were some skins of animals, benches, boxes, dishes and other articles used for cooking and comfort.

Two men were lying upon the ground smoking pipes before the big fire, and as the lights glowed upon their faces, the detectives observed that they were Roland Mason and Sim Johnson.

Both were conversing.

"Sim," the white man was saying, "are you quite sure the detectives have got Nick locked up in jail?"

"Dat's whut I heered dis mornin' in de town, Ma.s.sa Ronald," replied the negro, in serious tones.

"He may give us away, Sim."

"If he do, Ise gwine ter gib it to him."

"You won't have the chance if he's locked up."

They both laughed heartily at this grim remark.

When Sim's mirth abated, he said thoughtfully:

"Peahs ter me, if dem yere 'tectives wuz a-gwine ter pump any news outen dat c.o.o.n, dey would hab done it las' night, an' come right heah aftah us, sah."

"Their absence is all that relieves my mind, Sim. I quite agree with your idea. Still, Nick may weaken later on, and make a clean breast of it."

"Hab we got ter stay heah much longer?"

"No. Old Dalton is losing his nerve."

"Gwine ter sign dat check?"

"Yes. He hasn't had anything to eat for three days, and his spirit is broken entirely. He's begging me for food."

"What yo' tell de ole fool?"

"I told him I'd feed him the moment he signs that check."

"An' he gwine ter do it, hey?"

"I'm going to tackle him once more. I'm sure he will obey now. You see, there's a balance of $75,000 in Dalton's bank, in ready cash. It can't be drawn without a check, and I'm bound to get such a check. Once I have the money I'll let him go."

"Whar yo' go den?"

"England."

"An' take me?"

"So I promised you."

"De quicker yo' settle dat business, de better."

"Yes. It's too dangerous to remain around here much longer."

"Let's go and hab a look at de ole fellow now?"

"Very well. Light your lantern, and I'll get a fountain pen and a blank check."

They got upon their feet.

While the negro was procuring the light, Mason got his check, and they crossed the cavern, entered a narrow fissure in the wall, and vanished.

The detectives glided from their place of concealment.

Every word uttered had been heard by them.

They entered the fissure.

Some distance ahead was the light.

It suddenly disappeared around a bend, and the officers observed, its dim rays illuminating a small chamber, as black as midnight.

Reaching the end of the pa.s.sage, the Bradys glanced through the big opening and saw a small cavern of the same crystal formation as the two other caves, excepting that everything here was black and dark brown from some chemical discoloration.

It was a gloomy place.

In the middle of the room was a huge rock.

An iron ring was mortised in the side of it, to which a short, rusty chain was fastened. This chain held a human being a prisoner by being padlocked around his ankle.

The man was Oliver Dalton.

But the detectives scarcely recognized him.

His face was pale and haggard, his eyes deeply sunken in their sockets, his hair dishevelled, and his face covered with a short beard.

From privations his figure was so shrunken that his clothing hardly fit him, and the garments were so dirty and torn that he looked like a tramp.

Mason and the negro had paused near him.

The villain stood looking at the pitiful object he had so basely wronged with a cold, calculating glance, and finally said to him:

"How are you feeling, Dalton?"

"Oh, you miserable cur----" began the old broker, bitterly.

"Shut up!" roared Mason, roughly interrupting him. "No raving!"

"You'll kill me yet."