“Now stay there until I get ready to take you to jail,” cried the man.

He banged the heavy iron door shut and bolted it.  The next instant the detective heard him cross the cellar.  He mounted the stairs, banged the door above; and all became quiet.

CHAPTER XXI

CLOSE TO DEATH

For several seconds after being forced into the darkness beyond the iron door Adam Adams stood perfectly still.  He heard Matlock Styles go upstairs and was fairly well satisfied that the Englishman had left the old mill.

“That man has something up his sleeve as sure as fate,” murmured the detective to himself.  “He is playing a game, and a deep one, too.”

The darkness was absolute, and although he strained his eyes to the utmost he could not see a single thing surrounding him.  To all appearances he was in a veritable dungeon.

He sat down on the cement floor, and bending forward, managed, after much labor, to loosen the rope around his legs with his teeth.  Then he began to twist and turn at the rope which held his arms and presently that also came away.  His efforts lacerated his wrists and ankles, but to the pain he paid no attention.

With caution he moved around until his hands came in contact with a stone wall.  He paused for a moment and then moved along the wall, feeling carefully, so that he might not miss any opening which might present itself, and keeping one hand in front of him, so that he might not run into anything.

The wall was smooth and apparently solid.  Suddenly he put out his foot and stepped upon nothing but air.  He tried to draw back, but it was too late, and with a cry that could not be suppressed he went down into pitch-black space.  He struck on some sharp rocks, and then his senses forsook him.

The fall was a perilous one and it was only by good luck that Adam Adams did not have his brains dashed out.  As it was he remained unconscious for fully half an hour, and came to his senses to find a large lump on his head and the blood flowing over his face.  His left shoulder was lame and for the time being he was afraid it was broken.

The rocks upon which he had fallen rested in several inches of water, and with this water he washed off the blood and bathed his hurts as best he could in the darkness.

The mishap made him reach but one conclusion.  Matlock Styles had placed him there so that he might injure if not kill himself!

“The rascal!” muttered the detective.  “If I ever get out of here he shall suffer for this if for nothing else!”

It took him some time to pull himself together and get his breath.  Then he felt around cautiously, being careful to take no more steps until he was sure of his footing.

In a quarter of an hour he knew he was a prisoner in a circular cistern perhaps twelve feet in diameter and of uncertain depth.  The walls were perpendicular, smooth and covered with slime, so to crawl up was totally out of the question.