ed with a laugh. "It's horrible in there. There's
a rack and one or two thumbscrews and other articles which belong to the
Spanish Inquisition period; as well as rats innumerable. My bravery
vanishes at this point. I'll not go a step farther!"

"But you don't mind if I do?"

"Not a bit. I'll wait here. But there's nothing to see--really. And it's
getting perilously near lunch-time."

Cleek cocked his head persuasively at her.

"I won't be a minute--really. But that thumbscrew has got me guessing,
as our American cousins say. I suppose there's no lock on the door? Gad!
but it opens easily enough. Been fairly recently oiled, I take it?"

"Not that I know of. In fact, I don't believe any one's been in the
place since Ross came down here, three months ago, to show a friend
round. Perhaps he oiled it then."

"Perhaps. I won't be a minute, really. And I've another torch, if you'd
like it. Here." He tossed it to her, and, keeping his spot light ahead
of him, entered the dark, dank, evil-smelling place, his footsteps
ringing upon the stone flooring and sending the echoes scampering into
the corners, together with more tangible--and verminous--things. There
was nothing in the first room, but beyond it he came upon the Torture
Chamber and all those instruments of cruelty which marked a less kindly
period of the world's history. And this Chamber was larger than the
other cell. Rusty hooks hung from the ceiling, of incredible size and
suggesting unthinkable horrors, and over all hung the odour of damp and
decay, mingled with something more modern, which caused Cleek to stop
suddenly and sniff like a terrier scenting a rat.

"Strange!" he said to the silence and the solitude of that awful place,
"but she said the cellars were over there! But if someone hasn't been
drinking spirits here a short time ago, I miss my guess! And, what's
more, someone _has_! A solitary debauch, I suppose. Now, who the dickens
would have thought it?"

His torch caught a glimmer of something that shone like glass--which
_was_ glass, in fact, and resolved itself into a cracked tumbler beside
which stood a syphon of soda and an empty bottle smelling strongly of
whisky.

"Whew! Nice little place for a quiet read and a smoke--I _don't_ think!"
he apostrophized it. "With rats in the corners and ghosts all
around--brrh! He's a strange fellow who likes this sort of company, I
must say. But there's nothing to be nosed out here in this pleasant
little den