"It's hardly quite dry, even now," he remarked. "It's soaked right in-- through the boards, probably."

I stood appalled at the sight of that gruesome evidence of a crime. I was not familiar with such revolting sights, as were my companions.

How, I wondered, had Eric been struck down? What motive had Sybil's friend in reporting that he was alive and in Paris, when he was not?

Pickering, in the meanwhile, made a tour of the room. From a chair that had recently been broken he concluded that the person attacked had defended himself with it desperately, while there was a great rent in one of the dirty lace curtains that hung at the window, and it was slightly blood-stained, as though it had got caught in the struggle.

The last room we examined, which lay at the rear of the house, presented another peculiar feature, inasmuch as it was entirely bare save a table, a chair and a meagre bed, and it showed signs of rather recent occupation. Beside the grate was a cooking-pot, while on the table a dirty plate, a jug and a knife showed that its occupant had cooked his own food.

Pickering made a tour of the place, throwing the light of his lantern into every corner, examining the plate and taking up some articles of man's clothing that lay in confusion upon the bed. Then suddenly he stopped, exclaiming,--

"Why, somebody's been kept a prisoner here! Look at the bars before the window, and see, the door is covered with sheet-iron and strengthened.

The bolts, too, show that whoever was put in here couldn't escape. This place is a prison, that's evident," and taking up a piece of hard, stale bread from the table he added, "and this is the remains of the prisoner's last meal. Where is he now, I wonder?"

"Down below," suggested the detective Edwards.

"I fear so," the inspector said, and taking me to the window showed me how it only looked out upon the roof of the next house and in such a position that the shouts of anyone confined there would never be heard.

"They probably kept their victims here to extort money, and then when they had drained them dry they gave them their liberty. They went downstairs," he added grimly, "but they never gained the street."

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

BRINGS US FACE TO FACE.

Pickering was essentially a man of action.

"We must go down that hole and explore," he said determinedly. "We must know the whole of the secrets of this place before we go further.

Edwards, just slip round to the station and get that rope-ladder we used in the Charlotte Street affair. Bring more rope, as it may be too short. And bring P.C. Horton with you. Tell him to take his revolver.

Look sharp."

"Very well, sir," replied the man, who clambered over the settle and down the stairs, leaving us there to await his return.

Time pa.s.sed slowly in that dark, gruesome house, and at each noise we halted breathlessly in expectation of the return of Parham or one of his friends.

Returning to the room wherein Eric Domville had so gallantly defied his enemies, we resumed our search, and from beneath the couch the constable drew forth the square brown-paper parcel which Winsloe had obtained from the house called Keymer, and handed over to Parham.

Pickering, in a trice, cut the string with his pocket-knife, and within found a small square wooden box nailed down. The jemmy soon forced it open, when there was revealed a large packet of papers neatly tied with pink tape, which on being opened showed that they were a quant.i.ty of negotiable foreign securities--mostly French.

"The proceeds of some robbery, most certainly," declared Pickering, examining one after the other and inquiring of me their true character, he being ignorant of French.

"I expect the intention is to negotiate them in the City," I remarked after I had been through them and roughly calculated that their value was about twenty thousand pounds.

"Yes. We'll put them back and see who returns to fetch them. There's evidently a widespread conspiracy here, and it is fortunate, Mr Hughes, that you've been able at last to fix the house. By Jove!" the inspector added with a smile, "we ourselves couldn't have done better--indeed, we couldn't have done as well as you did."

"I only hope that we shall discover what has become of my friend Domville," I said. "I intend that his death shall not go unavenged. He was in this room, I'll swear to that. I'd know his voice among ten thousand."

"We shall see," remarked the officer, confidently. "First let us explore and discover how they got rid of their victims. I only hope n.o.body will return while we are below. If they do, Horton and Marvin will arrest them. We'll take Edwards down with us."

While the constable Marvin repacked the precious box to replace it, Pickering and myself went to the drawer and looked over the letters.

Many of them were unimportant and incomprehensible, until one I opened written upon blue-grey notepaper bearing the heading: "Harewolde Abbey, Herefordshire." It was in the well-known handwriting of Sybil Burnet!

Amazed, I read eagerly as follows:--

"Yes. Fred Kinghorne is here. He is an American, and beyond the Marstons has, I believe, no friends in England. He is an excellent bridge player and has won heavily this week. He has told me that he is engaged to a girl named Appleton, daughter of a Wall Street broker, and that she and her mother are to meet him in Naples on the twentieth, for a tour in Italy. He leaves here next Sat.u.r.day, and will stay at the Cecil for ten days prior to leaving for Italy. He is evidently very well off, and one of the reasons he is in England is to buy some jewellery as a wedding present for his bride. The Marstons tell me that he is the son of old Jacob Kinghorne, the great Californian financier.

I hope this information will satisfy you.--S."

Harewolde, as all the world knows, was one of the centres of the smart set. The Marstons entertained the royalties frequently, and there were rumours of bridge parties and high stakes. Why had Sybil given this curious information? Had the young man Kinghorne been marked down as one of the victims and enticed to that fatal house?

There was no envelope, and the commencement of the letter was abrupt, as though it had been enclosed with some unsuspicious communication.

Having read it, I laid it down without comment, for it was my last desire to incriminate the poor unhappy woman, who, shorn of her brilliancy, was now leading such a strange and lowly life in that dull South London street.

Yet could it be possible that she had acted for these blackguards as their secret agent in society?

The suggestion held me stupefied.

At last Edwards ascended the stairs with Horton and another constable in plain clothes, and scrambled across the settle to where we stood. He carried in his hand a strong ladder of silken rope--which Pickering incidentally remarked had once been the property of Crisp, the notable Hampstead burglar--together with another lantern, a ball of string and a length of stout rope.

Marvin and Edwards recrossed the improvised bridge, while Pickering, Horton and myself remained upon the landing. Then, when we drew the settle away the two men pressed upon the stairs, causing the whole to move forward upon the hinges at the edge of the landing and disclosing the black abyss. As soon as the pressure was released, however, the stairs swung back into their place again, there being either a spring or a counter-balancing weight beneath.

This was the first difficulty that faced us, but it was soon overcome by inserting the settle when the stairs were pushed apart, thus keeping them open. To the stout oak pillar which formed the head of the banisters Pickering fixed the rope-ladder firmly, and with Marvin tried its strength.

"I'll go down first, sir," volunteered Edwards. "You've got the lantern. Will you light it and let it down by the string after me?"

So with all of us breathlessly excited the silken ladder was thrown across to Edwards, whose round face beamed at the project of subterranean exploration. Then, when the lamp was lit and tied upon the string, he put his foot into the ladder, swung himself over the edge of the stairs and descended into the darkness, Pickering lowering the lamp after him.

We stood peering down at his descending figure, but could discern but little save the glimmering of the light and the slow swinging of the ladder, like a pendulum.

"Great Moses!" we heard him e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e in amazement.

Yet down, down, down he went until it became apparent that he must have reached the end of the ladder, and now be sliding down the extra length of rope which Pickering had attached.

"All right, sir!" came up his voice, sounding cavernous from the pitch darkness. "It's a jolly funny place down here, an' no mistake. Will you come down? I'm releasing the lantern. Send down another, please.

We'll want it."

Pickering hauled in the string, attached Marvin's bull's-eye to it, and let it down again at once. The pit was of great depth, as shown by the length of cord. Then with an agility which would have done credit to a much younger man, he swung himself over on to the ladder.

"If you'd like to come down, Mr Hughes, you can follow me," he exclaimed, as he disappeared into the darkness. "Horton, hold your light over me. You two stay here. If anybody enters the place, arrest them quickly."

"Very well, sir," answered the man Horton, and the inspector went deeper down until only the trembling of the ladder betokened his presence there.

"All right, Mr Hughes. Come down, but be careful," he cried up presently, his voice sounding far away. "You'll have to slide down the rope for the last twelve feet or so. Cling tight, and you'll be all right."

I grasped the ladder, placed my foot into the first loop, and then with the light held over me, went down, down, first into a place which seemed large and cavernous, and presently down a kind of circular well with black slimy walls which seemed to descend into the very bowels of the earth.

Below I could hear the sound of rushing waters, but above them was the inspector's encouraging voice, crying, "All right. Now then, take the rope in your legs and slip straight down."

I did so, and a moment later found myself up to my knees in an icy cold stream, which swept and gurgled about me.

Pickering and his a.s.sistant stood at my side, their lamps shining upon the dark subterranean flood.