He trailed the muzzle of the revolver round from my temple to the back of my head as he spoke, pressing it into my hair in its course in a fashion that was anything but reassuring.  I have often thought since of how I expected the thing to go off at any second, and how I was—­for it’s a fact—­more curious than frightened about it.  But the sense of self-preservation was on me, self-assertive enough, and I obliged him, stumbling in at the door under the pressure of his strong arm and of the revolver, and beginning to boggle at the first steps—­old and much worn ones, which were deeply hollowed in the middle.  He shoved me forward.

“Up you go,” he said, “straight ahead!  Put your arms up and out—­in front of you till you feel a door—­push it open.”

He kept one hand on the scruff of my neck—­too tightly for comfort—­and with the other pressed the revolver into the cavity just above it, and in this fashion we went up.  And even in that predicament I must have had my wits about me, for I counted two-and-twenty steps.  Then came the door—­a heavy, iron-studded piece of strong oak, and it was slightly open, and as I pushed it wider in the darkness, a musty, close smell came from whatever was within.

“No steps,” said he, “straight on!  Now then, halt—­and keep halting!  If you move one finger, Moneylaws, out fly your brains!  No great loss to the community, my lad—­but I’ve some use for them yet.”

He took his hand away from my neck, but the revolver was still pressed into my hair, and the pressure never relaxed.  And suddenly I heard a snap behind me, and the place in which we stood was lighted up—­feebly, but enough to show me a cell-like sort of room, stone-walled, of course, and destitute of everything in the furnishing way but a bit of a cranky old table and a couple of three-legged stools on either side of it.  With the released hand he had snapped the catch of an electric pocket-lamp, and in its blue glare he drew the revolver away from my head, and stepping aside, but always covering me with his weapon, motioned me to the further stool.  I obeyed him mechanically, and he pulled the table a little towards him, sat down on the other stool, and, resting his elbow on the table ledge, poked the revolver within a few inches of my nose.

“Now, we’ll talk for a few minutes, Moneylaws,” he said quietly, “Storm or no storm, I’m bound to be away on my business, and I’d have been off now if it hadn’t been for your cursed peeping and prying.  But I don’t want to kill you, unless I’m obliged to, so you’ll just serve your own interests best if you answer a question or two and tell no lies.  Are there more of you outside or about?”

“Not to my knowledge!” said I.

“You came alone?” he asked.

“Absolutely alone,” I replied.

“And why?” he demanded.

“To see if I could get any news of Miss Dunlop,” I answered.

“Why should you think to find Miss Dunlop here—­in this old ruin?” he argued; and I could see he was genuinely curious.  “Come now—­straight talk, Moneylaws!—­and it’ll be all the better for you.”