to be able to silence. The fact remained that through his negligence she
had been left unprotected in an hour of great danger.

Within the narrow walls of his prison there was no sound save the
occasional drip of water that oozed through the damp rock. He might have
been penned in a vault, and the darkness that pressed upon him seemed to
crush the senses, making difficult coherent thought. There was nothing
to be done but to wait, and that waiting was the worst ordeal that
Fletcher Hill had ever been called upon to face.

A long time passed--how long he had no means of gauging. He stood like
a sentinel, weapon in hand, staring into the awful darkness, struggling
against its oppression, fighting to keep his brain alert and ready for
any emergency. He thought he was prepared for anything, but that time
of waiting tried his endurance to the utmost, and when at length a sound
other than that irregular drip of water came through the deathly
stillness he started with a violence that sent a smile of self-contempt
to his lips.

It was a wholly unexpected sound--just the ordinary tones of a man's
voice speaking to him through the darkness where he had believed that
there was nothing but a blank wall.

"Mr. Hill, where are you?" it said. "I have come to get you out."

Hill's hand tightened upon his revolver. He was not to be taken unawares
a second time. He stood in absolute silence, waiting.

There was a brief pause, then again came the voice. "There's not much
point in shooting me. You'll probably starve if you do. So watch out!