I replied.

"Then I recommend you to listen," said Rupert sharply.

In the dead silence of the aristocratic street at evening, I stood a
moment and listened. From behind the wooden partition, in which there
was a long lean crack, was coming a continuous and moaning sound which
took the form of the words: "When shall I get out? When shall I get out?
Will they ever let me out?" or words to that effect.

"Do you know anything about this?" I said, turning upon Rupert very
abruptly.

"Perhaps you think I am the criminal," he said sardonically, "instead
of being in some small sense the detective. I came into this area two or
three minutes ago, having told you that I knew there was something funny
going on, and this woman behind the shutters (for it evidently is a
woman) was moaning like mad. No, my dear friend, beyond that I do
not know anything about her. She is not, startling as it may seem, my
disinherited daughter, or a member of my secret seraglio. But when
I hear a human being wailing that she can't get out, and talking to
herself like a mad woman and beating on the shutters with her fists,
as she was doing two or three minutes ago, I think it worth mentioning,
that is all."

"My dear fellow," I said, "I apologize; this is no time for arguing.
What is to be done?"

Rupert Grant had a long clasp-knife naked and brilliant in his hand.

"First of all," he said, "house-breaking." And he forced the blade into
the crevice of the wood and broke away a huge splinter, leaving a gap
and glimpse of the dark window-pane inside. The room within was entirely
unlighted, so that for the first few seconds the window seemed a dead
and opaque surface, as dark as a strip of slate. Then came a realization
which, though in a sense gradual, made us step back and catch our
breath. Two large dim human eyes were so close to us that the window
itself seemed suddenly to be a mask. A pale human face was pressed
against the glass within, and with increased distinctness, with the
increase of the opening came the words:

"When shall I get out?"

"What can all this be?" I said.

Rupert made no answer, but lifting his walking-stick and pointing the
ferrule like a fencing sword at the glass, punched a hole in it, smaller
and more accurate than I should have supposed possible. The moment he
had done so the voice spouted out of the hole, so to speak, piercing and
querulous and clear, making the same demand for liberty.

"Can't you get out, m