waste ground adjoining was wrapped in gloom and silence. The exterior
of the bare and deserted chapel, long since unconsecrate, was dull and
lifeless. Inside, however, began the march of strange things. First of
all, the pinprick of light of a tiny electric torch seemed as though it
had risen from the floor, and Hassan, pushing back a trap-door, stepped
into the bare, dusty conventicle. He listened for a moment, then made a
tour of the windows, touched a spring in the wall, and drew down long,
thick blinds. Afterwards he passed between the row of dilapidated
benches and paused at the entrance door. He stooped down, examined the
keyless lock, shook it gently, gazed upwards and downwards as though in
vain search of bolts that were never there. His white teeth gleamed for
a moment in the darkness. He turned away with a little shiver.

"Not my fault," he muttered to himself. "Not my fault."

He listened for a moment intently, as though for footsteps outside. The
disturbance, however, came from the other end of the building. There
was a sharp knocking from the trap-door by which he had ascended. He
touched an electric knob. The place was dimly yet sufficiently
illuminated. He hastened towards the further end of the place and
pulled up the trap-door. A melancholy-looking little procession slowly
emerged. First of all came Joseph, stepping backwards, supporting the
head and shoulders of Graham, still bound and gagged. After him came a
dark, swarthy-faced wine waiter, who supported Graham's feet. Behind
followed Fischer, carrying his silk hat and cane in his hand. He paused
for a moment as he stepped on the floor of the chapel, and brushed the
dust from his trousers.

"You can take out the gag now," he ordered the two men. "There isn't
much shout in him."