“Sit down in that chair,” continued the Englishman to Adam Adams, shoving him backward on a seat.  “Now, Nelson, watch him.  Watch him, old boy.  Don’t let him get up.”  And the dog growled In response.

The Englishman then motioned to the other man, and the pair went out together, closing the door after them.  Listening, the detective heard a murmur of voices in the kitchen of the house and then all became quiet.

Adam Adams was angry, and that anger was directed entirely at himself.  In the easiest possible manner he had allowed himself to be outwitted and exposed.

Could the Englishman be honest in what he said, or was he playing a deep game?  That was a question which could not as yet be answered.  If the fellow was honest he was most likely now getting ready to take his prisoner to the Sidham lockup.  The absurdity of such a move compelled Adam Adams to smile bitterly.

To escape was out of the question.  He could not slip from the cords which bound him, and at his slightest move the mastiff growled and showed an inclination to leap at his throat.  So the detective considered discretion the better part of valor and remained quiet.

It was fully an hour before Matlock Styles returned.  He was alone and carried a lantern on his arm, for it was now dark outside.

“I can’t take you to town to-night,” he said.  “I am going to keep you here until morning.”

“You haven’t any right to keep me at all.”

“I’ll risk that.  I’ll make you comfortable, don’t you fear.”

Adam Adams thought rapidly.  Perhaps to remain a prisoner at the farmhouse would be better than to be taken to town.  During the night he might get the opportunity to escape.

Matlock Styles untied the end of the rope which bound the detective’s legs and ordered the prisoner to follow him.

“And don’t try to run away, unless you want Nelson to make a meal of you,” he added grimly.

“Where are you going to take me?”

“You’ll soon see.”

The Englishman led the way out of the farmhouse and past the barn and several other out-buildings.  Then he took to a path leading to the river and presently came to a halt in front of an old deserted mill.  The building was dark and forbidding, and an owl, hooting in a nearby tree, added to the loneliness of the situation.

“I don’t understand this,” said the detective, as Matlock Styles came to a halt.

The Englishman did not answer.  Instead, he set down his lantern and proceeded to bind the detective’s legs once more.  His manner was now rough and he acted as if he was somewhat desperate.  He shoved open a door to the mill and peered around inside.  Then he stepped back, put his lantern over his arm and caught Adam Adams up by the middle and threw the detective over his shoulder as if his prisoner were a log of wood.

There was no use arguing and Adam Adams did not attempt it.  Indeed, he was rather curious to see what the fellow would do next.  Matlock Styles entered the old mill and then descended a flight of stone steps.  Below was a sort of cellar, damp and musty.  Crossing the cellar the Englishman opened an iron door in a brick wall and literally threw Adam Adams into the inky darkness beyond.