“Shall I go round to the front and see that he is in bed?”

“No need,” Mr. Fentolin replied calmly.  “It is nearly four o’clock.  Better not to risk the sound of your footsteps upon the pebbles.  Now!”

The door swung noiselessly open.  The darkness was so complete that even though Hamel could have touched them with an outstretched hand, their shapes were invisible.  Hamel, who had formed no definite plans, had no time to hesitate.  As the last one disappeared through the door, he, too, slipped in.  He turned abruptly to the left and, holding his breath, stood against the wall.  The door closed behind them.  The gleam of the electric light flashed across the stone floor and rested for a moment upon a trap-door, which Meekins had already stooped to lift.  It fell back noiselessly upon rubber studs, and Meekins immediately slipped through it a ladder, on either side of which was a grooved stretch of board, evidently fashioned to allow Mr. Fentolin’s carriage to pass down.  Hamel held his breath.  The moment for him was critical.  If the light flashed once in his direction, he must be discovered.  Both Meekins and Doctor Sarson, however, were intent upon the task of steering Mr. Fentolin’s little carriage down below.  They placed the wheels in the two grooves, and Meekins secured the carriage with a rope which he let run through his fingers.  As soon as the little vehicle had apparently reached the bottom, he turned, thrust the electric torch in his pocket, and stepped lightly down the ladder.  Doctor Sarson followed his example.  They disappeared in perfect silence and left the door open.  Presently a gleam of light came travelling up, from which Hamel knew that they had lit a lamp below.  Very softly he crept across the floor, threw himself upon his stomach and peered down.  Below him was a room, or rather a cellar, parts of which seemed to have been cut out of the solid rock.  Immediately underneath was a plain iron bedstead, on which was lying stretched the figure of a man.  In those first few moments Hamel failed altogether to recognise Mr. Dunster.  He was thin and white, and he seemed to have shrunken; his face, with its coarse growth of beard, seemed like the face of an old man.  Yet the eyes were open, eyes dull and heavy as though with pain.  So far no word had been spoken, but at that moment Mr. Fentolin broke the silence.

“My dear guest,” he said, “I bring you our most sincere apologies.  It has gone very much against the grain, I can assure you, to have neglected you for so long a time.  It is entirely the fault of the very troublesome young man who occupies the other portion of this building.  In the daytime his presence makes it exceedingly difficult for us to offer you those little attentions which you might naturally expect.”

The man upon the bed neither moved nor changed his position in any way.  Nor did he speak.  All power of initiative seemed to have deserted him.  He lay quite still, his eyes fixed upon Mr. Fentolin.