ely. He's begging me for food."

"What yo' tell de ole fool?"

"I told him I'd feed him the moment he signs that check."

"An' he gwine ter do it, hey?"

"I'm going to tackle him once more. I'm sure he will obey now. You see,
there's a balance of $75,000 in Dalton's bank, in ready cash. It can't
be drawn without a check, and I'm bound to get such a check. Once I
have the money I'll let him go."

"Whar yo' go den?"

"England."

"An' take me?"

"So I promised you."

"De quicker yo' settle dat business, de better."

"Yes. It's too dangerous to remain around here much longer."

"Let's go and hab a look at de ole fellow now?"

"Very well. Light your lantern, and I'll get a fountain pen and a blank
check."

They got upon their feet.

While the negro was procuring the light, Mason got his check, and they
crossed the cavern, entered a narrow fissure in the wall, and vanished.

The detectives glided from their place of concealment.

Every word uttered had been heard by them.

They entered the fissure.

Some distance ahead was the light.

It suddenly disappeared around a bend, and the officers observed, its
dim rays illuminating a small chamber, as black as midnight.

Reaching the end of the passage, the Bradys glanced through the big
opening and saw a small cavern of the same crystal formation as the two
other caves, excepting that everything here was black and dark brown
from some chemical discoloration.

It was a gloomy place.

In the middle of the room was a huge rock.

An iron ring was mortised in the side of it, to which a short, rusty
chain was fastened. This chain held a human being a prisoner by being
padlocked around his ankle.

The man was Oliver Dalton.

But the detectives scarcely recognized him.

His face was pale and haggard, his eyes deeply sunken in their sockets,
his hair dishevelled, and his face covered with a short beard.

From privations his figure was so shrunken that his clothing hardly fit
him, and the garments were so dirty and torn that he looked like a
tramp.

Mason and the negro had paused near him.

The villain stood looking at the pitiful object he had so basely
wronged with a cold, calculating glance, and finally said to him:

"How are you feeling, Dalton?"

"Oh, you miserable cur----" began the old broker, bitterly.

"Shut up!" roared Mason, roughly interrupting him. "No raving!"

"You'll kill me yet."

"That makes little difference to me."

"For mer