he had lived was a shapeless ruin.

The boy continued to sit motionless in his chair, desperately,
desperately puzzling the dark mystery.

Gradually in Warren's dazed mind the whole affair took definite shape.
They were gone; arrested on suspicion. For the moment at least he felt
sure they were safe, even in the hands of an enemy who had shown
themselves utterly cruel and heartless. He felt sure that if they were
suspected of being spies every effort would be made to make them
confess before they were executed, if it did indeed come near that
question.

But "Find Ivan." What did that mean? Evidently Ivan was not with
them. As though in answer to his thought, Warren heard or thought he
heard a faint shout. He listened. It was repeated, with a sound of
pounding and banging. Once more Warren searched the house, beginning
with the old dusty, rambling attic set close under the great beams of
the old house. Down he hurried, from room to room, looking in presses,
under beds, and listening in each room.

As he reached the kitchen, the sound seemed clearer. It was Ivan's
voice. He opened the cellar stairs and went down. Once, years, even
generations past, the house had been the residence of a noble. The
cellar was not the one or two rooms of the modern house. It was vast
and vaulted and contained a dozen dark, unlighted apartments, all with
heavy, iron-barred, oaken doors.

Professor Morris said that two of the rooms had been used as dungeons
and it was in one of these that Warren found Ivan. He stumbled over