Still, with aching chest, and bleeding fingers, and smarting eyes, Kettle worked doggedly on, and at last got a hole made completely through.  What lay in the blackness beyond he did not know; either Rad el Moussa or the fireman might be waiting to give him a coup de grace the moment his head appeared; but he was ready to accept every risk.  He felt that if he stayed in the smoke of that burning camel’s dung any longer he would be strangled.

The hole in the brickwork was scarcely bigger than a fox-earth, but he was a slightly built man, and with a hard struggle he managed to push his way through.  No one opposed him.  He found and scraped his only remaining match, and saw that he was in another bottle-shaped chamber similar to the one he had left; but in this there was a doorway.  There was pungent smoke reek here also, and, though its slenderness came to him as a blessed relief after what he had been enduring, he lusted desperately for a taste of the pure air outside.

The door gave to his touch, and he found a stair.  He ran up this and stepped out into the corridor, where Rad had lured him to capture, and then, walking cautiously by the wall so as not to step into any more booby-traps, he came to the place where he calculated Murray would be jailed.  A large thick carpet had been spread over the door so as to prevent any egress of the stinging smoke, or any ingress of air, and this he pulled away, and lifted the trap.

There was no sound from below.  “Great heavens,” he thought, “was the mate dead?” He hailed sharply, and a husky voice answered.  Seeing nothing else at hand that would serve, he lowered an end of the carpet, keeping a grip on the other, and presently Murray got a hold and clambered up beside him.

In a dozen whispered words Kettle told his plans, and they were on the point of starting off to carry them out, when the slop-slop of slippers made itself heard advancing down the corridors.  Promptly the pair of them sank into the shadows, and presently the ex-fireman came up whistling cheerfully an air from some English music-hall.  He did not see them till they were almost within hand-grips, and then the tune froze upon his lips in a manner that was ludicrous.

But neither Kettle nor his mate had any eye for the humors of the situation just then.  Murray plucked the man’s legs artistically from beneath him, and Kettle gripped his hands and throat.  He thrust his savage little face close down to the black man’s.  “Now,” he said, “where’s Rad?  Tell me truly, or I’ll make you into dog’s meat.  And speak quietly.  If you make a row, I’ll gouge your eyes out.”

“Rad, he in divan,” the fellow stuttered in a scared whisper.  “Sort o’ front shop you savvy, sar.  Don’ kill me.”

“I can recommend my late state-room,” said Murray.

“Just the ticket,” said Kettle.  So into the oubliette they toppled him, clapping down the door in its place above.  “There you may stay, you black beast,” said his judge, “to stew in the smoke you raised yourself.  If any of your numerous wives are sufficiently interested to get you out, they may do so.  If not, you pig, you may stay and cure into bacon.  I’m sure I sha’n’t miss you.  Come along, Mr. Mate.”