“I’m right,” said Ronicky.  “I can tell when I’ve hurt a gent by the way his face wrinkles up.  I sure hurt you that time, Fernand.  John Mark it was, eh?”

Fernand could merely stare.  He began to have vague fears that this young devil might have hypnotic powers, or be in touch with he knew not what unearthly source of information.

“Out with it,” said Ronicky, leaving his chair.

Frederic Fernand bit his lip in thought.  He was by no means a coward, and two alternatives presented themselves to him.  One was to say nothing and pretend absolute ignorance; the other was to drop his hand into his coat pocket and fire the little automatic which nestled there.

“Listen,” said Ronicky Doone, “suppose I was to go a little farther still in my guesses!  Suppose I said I figured out that John Mark and his men might be scattered around outside this house, waiting for me and Smith to come out:  What would you say to that?”

“Nothing,” said Fernand, but he blinked as he spoke.  “For a feat of imagination as great as that I have only a silent admiration.  But, if you have some insane idea that John Mark, a gentleman I know and respect greatly, is lurking like an assassin outside the doors of my house—­”

“Or maybe inside ’em,” said Ronicky, unabashed by this gravity.

“If you think that,” went on the gambler heavily, “I can only keep silence.  But, to ease your own mind, I’ll show you a simple way out of the house—­a perfectly safe way which even you cannot doubt will lead you out unharmed.  Does that bring you what you want?”

“It sure does,” said Ronicky.  “Lead the way, captain, and you’ll find us right at your heels.”  He fell in beside Jerry Smith, while the fat man led on as their guide.

“What does he mean by a safe exit?” asked Jerry Smith.  “You’d think we were in a smuggler’s cave.”

“Worse,” said Ronicky, “a pile worse, son.  And they’ll sure have to have some tunnels or something for get-aways.  This ain’t a lawful house, Jerry.”

As they talked, they were being led down toward the cellar.  They paused at last in a cool, big room, paved with cement, and the unmistakable scent of the underground was in the air.

“Here we are,” said the fat man, and, so saying, he turned a switch which illumined the room completely and then drew aside a curtain which opened into a black cavity.

Ronicky Doone approached and peered into it.  “How does it look to you, Jerry?” he asked.

“Dark, but good enough for me, if you’re all set on leaving by some funny way.”

“I don’t care how it looks,” said Ronicky thoughtfully.  “By the looks you can’t make out nothing most of the time—­nothing important.  But they’s ways of smelling things, and the smell of this here tunnel ain’t too good to me.  Look again and try to pry down that tunnel with your flash light, Jerry.”

Accordingly Jerry raised his little pocket electric torch and held it above his head.  They saw a tunnel opening, with raw dirt walls and floor and a rude framing of heavy timbers to support the roof.  But it turned an angle and went out of view in a very few paces.