a key. She took this, descended to the kitchen, and from there
noiselessly down the stairway to the cellar. She groped her way without
a light along the adobe wall till she came to a door which was unlocked.
This opened into another part of the cellar, used as a room for storing
supplies needed in their trade. Past barrels and boxes she went to
another stairway and breathlessly ascended it. At the top of eight or
nine steps a door barred progress. Very carefully she found the keyhole,
fitted in the key, and by infinitesimal degrees unlocked the door.

The night seemed alive with the noise of her movements. Now the door
creaked as it swung open before her. She waited, heart beating like a
trip hammer, and stared into the blackness of the store.

"Who is it?" a voice asked in a low tone.

"It's me, Phyl Sanderson. Are you alone?" she whispered.

"Yes. Tied to a chair. Guards are just outside."

She went toward him softly with hands outstretched in the darkness, and
presently her fingers touched his face. They travelled downward till
they found the ropes which bound him. For a moment she fumbled at the
knots before she remembered a swifter way.

"Wait," she breathed, and stole back of the counter to the case where
pocketknives were kept.

Finding one, she ran to him and hacked at the rope till he was free.

He rose and stretched his cramped limbs.