"Any one here?" he asked, raising his voice a little.
There was no direct response, yet from somewhere upstairs he heard the
half smothered cry of a woman. He gripped his revolver in his fingers. He
was a fatalist, and although for a moment he regretted having come
single-handed to such an obvious trap, he prepared for his task. He took a
quick step forward. The ground seemed to slip from beneath his feet. He
staggered wildly to recover himself, and failed. The floor had given from
beneath him. He was falling into blackness....
The fall itself was scarcely a dozen feet. He picked himself up, his
shoulder bruised, his head swimming a little. His electric torch was
broken to pieces upon the stone floor. He was simply in a black gulf of
darkness. Suddenly a gleam of light shone down. A trap-door above his head
was slid a few inches back. The flare of an electric torch shone upon his
face, a man's mocking voice addressed him.
"Not the great Sanford Quest? This surely cannot be the greatest detective
in the world walking so easily into the spider's web!"
"Any chance of getting out?" Quest asked laconically.
"None!" was the bitter reply. "You've done enough mischief. You're there
to rot!"
"Why this animus against me, my friend Macdougal?" Quest demanded. "You
and I have never come up against one another before. I didn't like the
life you led in New York ten years ago, or your friends, but you've
suffered nothing through me."
"If I let you go," once more came the man's voice, "I know very well in
what chair I shall be sitting before a month has passed.
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