It opened, and the first thing they saw was the blunt nose of an automatic. A rough voice said: "Keep back, both of you."
They obeyed; there was nothing else to do. The door opened farther, and they saw a man standing there in the rough clothes of a country labourer. A handkerchief was tied round the lower half of his face, and a cloth cap was on his head. He had a bottle of water in his left hand, and this he set down on the floor. "Keep as you are!" he warned them, and took a step backwards, feeling behind him. He pulled a second chair in, and thrust it into the cell. "You can have that, and the water," he said. "And I wouldn't waste my breath shouting for help, if I was you. No one'll hear you, not if you shout till you're black in the face."
"Where are we?" Peter said, not that he had much hope of getting an answer.
"You're where no one'll ever think to look for you," the man replied.
Margaret said: "But you can't keep us here! Oh please, don't go! You couldn't leave us here to starve!"
"It's none of my business," was the callous answer. "And there's precious little the Monk stops at, I can tell you. You've interfered with him. That's what happens to people as cross the Monk's path." He drew his thumb across his throat in a crude descriptive gesture.
"Look here," Peter said, "I'm a pretty rich man, and if you get us out of this there's a fat reward waiting for you, and no awkward questions asked."
The man laughed. "Me? No bloody fear! Know what happened to Dooval? I've got no wish to go the same road, thank you kindly."
"I'll see nothing happens to you."
"Oh, you will, will you? Think you could stop the Monk? Well, there ain't a soul that knows him, and if you had a guard of fifty policemen he'd still get you. You wouldn't clear out of the Priory, you kept on nosing round after the Monk. And he's got you, and you talk about escaping! You won't do that, my fine gentleman, don't you fret. Nor no one won't recognise you if ever they finds you, for you'll be no more'n a skeleton. You crossed the Monk's path." With that he gave another of Isis brutal laughs, and went out, and shot the bolts home again.
Margaret sat down limply. "Peter, he can't mean that! No one could be as awful as that!"
"Of course they couldn't, Sis. Keep a stiff upper lip. liven supposing they do mean to clear out and leave us to rot, do you suppose Charles is going to do nothing?"
"But he said - no one would ever think to look for us here. Oh, Peter, why ever didn't we leave the Priory as Celia wanted?"
"Nonsense!" he said bracingly. "When Charles finds we've disappeared he'll pull the Priory down stone by stone. Listen, Sis! Don't give way! Already Charles knows there's something odd about the place. You don't suppose he and Celia would calmly give us up for lost when they must guess we're somewhere in the house? They'll have Scotland Yard on to it, and the whole countryside will be up. There isn't the slightest doubt that they'll find us."
She pointed out the water-bottle. "And we've got that — to last us till they do find us. It might take them weeks. Or perhaps the Monk will do as that man meant, and kill us."
"If he were going to kill us he'd hardly have bothered to let us have any water, or a second chair," Peter pointed out. "Sis, if you let go of yourself, you're not the girl I take you for. We may even find a way out ourselves. My dear kid, people don't get buried alive in the twentieth century!"
She knew that he was talking more to reassure her than from any real conviction, but she pulled herself together. "Yes. Of course. Sorry. Do you suppose this machine goes on all day, or will they all go away?"
"Go away, I should think. Too risky to work by day. When they've cleared off we can try and force that shutter back. I might be able to reach the top bolt, and that would give us a better chance of breaking the door down. Or I might be able to drive the wood in with the help of one of the chairs. What we've got to do is to keep our spirits up and talk of something else till the gang has gone. Wonder how they ventilate this place?"
She tried to follow his lead. "Yes, they must have some sort of ventilation, mustn't they? And though it's musty, and sort of close, it isn't airless, is it? How would they do it?"
"Don't quite know. If they've got power enough to work a machine they've probably rigged up some system of fans, same as they have in mines. But there must be an outlet somewhere, and that's what I can't make out."
They speculated on this for some time in rather a halfhearted fashion. Then Peter produced his cigarette-case, and they lit up, and smoked for a while, trying to think of something cheerful to talk about.
It was not only damp, but also cold, in the stone room, and Margaret had no coat. Peter saw her shiver, and began to take off his coat. "Sis, why didn't you sing out? You must be frozen in that thin dress. Here, put this on."
She demurred, but he insisted, and at last she put it on gratefully: Peter looked at his watch. "Nearly one o'clock. I'd give something to know what old Chas is doing."
"Celia will be dreadfully worried," Margaret said. "I wonder what they thought when they found us gone? Oh, Peter, suppose they were late, and just jumped to the conclusion we'd gone to bed, and didn't bother to look?"
"You're forgetting Bowers," he reminded her. "He went to get the coal, and when he got back to the library and found no trace of us, he must have thought it a trifle odd. I'll tell you what, Sis, that fire of yours was a stroke of genius. Because when the others hear how we took the trouble to light it they're bound to smell a rat. They can't think we went to bed, or strolled out for a walk, or anything like that."
These cheerful surmises occupied them for another half-hour, each one producing fresh reasons why Charles and Celia must guess what had happened. But they could not keep it up for ever, and again silence fell between them, and they sat busy with their much less cheerful thoughts.
Peter was chiefly anxious on the score of time. Though he spoke optimistically to Margaret he was less certain in his own mind that the Monk would not leave them to starve. He could not but remember Duval's fate, and the cold-blooded way in which that murder had been carried out. He did not doubt that before he gave up hope of finding the missing pair Charles really would demolish the Priory, but it might be too late by then. They could hardly hope that Charles too would hit on the panel in the library, for thinking it over, Peter realised that no one could guess that they had been kidnapped there. It would be much more likely that Charles would think they had gone out into the grounds. One thing Peter felt sure about: Charles would connect Michael Strange with this. Therein lay the greatest hope of a swift deliverance, for Strange might be made to talk.
Margaret's thoughts were by no means so reasoned or consecutive; she was still shaken by the terrifying experience she had gone through, and it seemed as though her brain could do nothing but repeat scraps of what Strange had said to her that day at the Inn. He had said it was no use supposing that she would ever look at a man in his "line of business." But he had said that from him she stood in no danger. Yes, but had he not added that he was not the only person mixed up in this? He had said too that there was danger, and that he might be powerless to help her. Unless he was the most accomplished and heartless liar he could not, on the face of it, be the Monk. It was possible that he was working under the Monk's orders, and if that were so Margaret felt convinced that the Monk had some unbreakable hold over him. He had told her that he must go on with the job he had undertaken. What else could that mean?
Peter's voice broke into her thoughts. "Margaret, you say the Monk lugged me in here. What did he look like?"
She gave a shiver. "You've seen pictures of those Inquisition people? Well, like that. He's got a long black robe on, with a cord round the waist, and a cowled hood drawn right down over his head and face. And do you remember what Aunt Lilian said about the black hand that pointed at her? Well, that was true. He wears black gloves, sort of cotton ones, with buttons, only he doesn't do them up. That was the only bit of him you could see for the disguise - his wrists. I particularly noticed, because it was the only thing about him that looked human. There was a button off one glove, too. Isn't it funny what stupid little things one fixes on?"