aperture. Instantly, and without sound,
the door opened.

T. B. was the first to go in, revolver in hand. He found himself in a
room which, even if it were a prison, was a well-disguised prison. The
walls were hung with costly tapestry, the carpet under foot was thick
and velvety and the furniture which garnished the room was of a most
costly and luxurious description.

"Lady Constance!" gasped T. B. in surprise.

A woman who was sitting in a chair near the reading lamp rose quickly
and turned her startled gaze to the detective.

"Mr. Smith," she said, and ran towards him. "Oh, thank God you have
come!"

She grasped him by his two arms; she was half hysterical in that moment
of her release, and was babbling an incoherent string of words; a
description of her capture--her fear--her gratitude--all in an
inextricably confused rush of half completed phrases.

"Sit down, Lady Constance," said T. B. gently; "collect yourself and try
to remember--have you seen Poltavo?"

"Poltavo?" she said, startled into coherence. "No, is he here?"

"He is somewhere here," said T. B. "I am seeking for him now. Will you
stay here or will you come with us?"

"I would rather come with you," she said with a shiver.

They passed through the door together.

"Do all these doors open upon rooms similar to this?" asked T. B.

"I believe there are a number of underground cells," she answered in a
whisper, "but the principal one is that which is near." She pointed to
a red-painted door some twenty paces away from the one from which they
were emerging. There was another pause whilst Ela repeated his
examination of the door.

Apparently they all worked on the pick system, a method which medieval
conspirators favoured, and which the Italian workmen probably imported
from the land of their birth; a land which has given the world the
Borgias and the Medicis and the Visconti.

"Stay here," said T. B. in a low voice, and Lady Constance shrank back
against the wall.

Ela pressed in his little needle and again the result was satisfactory.
The door opened slowly and T. B. stepped in.

He stood for a moment trying to understand all that the terrible scene
signified. The limp body on the floor; the two remorseless men standing
close by; Farrington with folded arms and his eye glowering down upon
the dead man at his feet. Fall at the switchboard.

Then T. B.'s revolver rose swiftly.

"Hands up!" he said.

The words were hardly out of his mo