Thereupon he acted:  with the result, as has appeared, that Phil Abingdon, hatless, without her furs, breathless and more frightened than she had ever been in her life, presently found herself driving a luxurious Rolls Royce out of a roofless barn on to the highroad, and down the slope to Claybury station.

It was at about this time, or a little later, that Paul Harley put into execution a project which he had formed.  The ventilator above the divan, which he had determined to be the spy-hole through which his every movement was watched, had an ornamental framework studded with metal knobs.  He had recently discovered an electric bell-push in the centre panel of the massive door of his prison.

Inwardly on fire, imagining a thousand and one horrors centring about the figure of Phil Abingdon, but retaining his outward calm by dint of a giant effort, he pressed this bell and waited.

Perhaps two minutes elapsed.  Then the glass doors beyond the gilded screen were drawn open, and the now-familiar voice spoke: 

“Mr. Paul Harley?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I have made my final decision.”

“And that is?”

“I agree.”

“You are wise,” the voice replied.  “A statement will be placed before you for signature.  When you have signed it, ring the bell again, and in a few minutes you will be free.”

Vaguely he detected the speaker withdrawing.  Thereupon, heaving a loud sigh, he removed his coat, looked about him as if in quest of some place to hang it, and finally, fixing his gaze upon the studded grating, stood upon the divan and hung his coat over the spy-hole!  This accomplished, he turned.

The table was slowly sinking through the gap in the floor beneath.

Treading softly, he moved forward and seated himself cross-legged upon it!  It continued to descend, and he found himself in absolute darkness.

Nicol Brinn ran on to the veranda and paused for a moment to take breath.  The window remained open, as Phil Abingdon had left it.  He stepped into the room with its elegant Persian appointments.  It was empty.  But as he crossed the threshold, he paused, arrested by the sound of a voice.

“A statement will be placed before you,” said the voice, “and when you have signed it, in a few minutes you will be free.”

Nicol Brinn silently dropped flat at the back of a divan, as Rama Dass, coming out of the room which communicated with the golden screen, made his way toward the distant door.  Having one eye raised above the top of the cushions, Nicol Brinn watched him, recognizing the man who had accompanied the swooning lady.  She had been deposited, then, at no great distance from the house.

He was to learn later that poor Mrs. McMurdoch, in her artificially induced swoon, had been left in charge of a hospitable cottager, while her solicitous Oriental escort had sped away in quest of a physician.  But at the moment matters of even greater urgency engaged his attention.