"A button off," Peter said. "Well, I thought as much."
"Why? What did you think?"
"Nothing. Something the police told us, and we weren't to repeat. Could you see what sort of build he was?"
"No, not very well with that loose robe on. Fairly tall, but not out of the way. A powerful man, because he managed to drag you to this place, and I couldn't see anyone else helping him. And his arm felt like steel when he held me."
"And he didn't say anything?"
"No. That seemed to make him even more sinister. That, and the dreadful chuckle."
"Doesn't really help us much," Peter said. He looked at his watch again. "Half past two. Look here, Sis, I think you'd better try and get some sleep. You've had a very strenuous time, and you're looking fagged out. And you mustn't forget we shall have a busy time ahead of us when this crowd clears off. Suppose you were to sit on my knee. Think you could snooze a bit with your head on my shoulder?"
She shook her head. "I couldn't, Peter. And I'm not a light weight, you know. I should wear you out."
"Oh no, you wouldn't!"
"Really, I'd rather not. I'm not sleepy. Anything but. Let's play some guessing game to keep ourselves occupied. Animal, vegetable, or mineral. You start."
"All right," he said. There was a pause. "I've thought. Go ahead."
The game seemed dreary beyond relief, but they kept on at it valiantly for nearly an hour. Then Margaret gave it up, and they began to wonder again what Charles and Celia were doing.
It was nearly four o'clock when the noise of the engine suddenly ceased. Margaret instinctively felt for Peter's hand. They sat in silence, listening, and presently they heard a door open and a murmur of voices. They could distinguish no voice they knew, nor could they catch what was said. Footsteps sounded retreating in the distance, and when these had died away they heard a key grate in a lock. Someone had remained behind, and there could be little doubt who that someone was.
Peter gently pulled Margaret to her feet, and led her to the wall alongside the door, so that she should be out of range of a shot fired through the grille. He placed himself as near to the door as he dared, determined to make a fight for it if the Monk came into the room.
But no one came. They heard the padding footstep which Margaret had described, and it died away as the others had done.
After the noise of the machine the silence that now hung over the tomb-like placee was so profound that Margaret felt that she knew at last what was meant by "hearing a silence." Nothing broke it, and she realised with a feeling of panic how completely buried alive they were. She felt she dared not speak, but presently Peter turned and said; "Gone. We'd better wait a bit before we get to work."
She nodded. The palms of her hands felt cold and sticky. She had an awful fear that the Monk might be still there, listening to them, waiting.
The minutes crept by. Peter whispered: "I'm going to give him half an hour's grace, just in case he hasn't gone. We've got loads of time. Let's sit down again. But if I say "move" get back to this wall again. See?"
"Yes," she replied. "We'd - we'd better go on talking, hadn't we?"
"That's the idea. Let's play I love my love with an A, as we used to when we were kids."
This programme was faithfully carried out, and since neither of them seemed to be able to think of drinks beginning with D, or attributes beginning with Q it took them more than half an hour to struggle through the alphabet. When they had at last come to the end, Peter got up. "I think it's safe enough now," he said. "If he were coming to do us in he wouldn't wait all this time. You sit still. I'm going to try and move that shutter."
For perhaps twenty minutes he tried by every means lie could think of to force it open, but it was of no avail. He banged on the door, to test the thickness of the wood. It sounded very solid, but he could at least try to break through. He picked up one of the chairs, and drove it with all his might against the door until one of its legs broke, and he was forced to pause for a while to get his breath. He sat down on the table, wiping the sweat from his face. "Well - I'm warm enough now, anyway," he said, trying to coax a smile into Margaret's wan countenance.
She did smile, but it was a pathetic effort. He patted her hand. "Cheer up, Sis: we'll get out all right."
He sat still for a few minutes, trying to think what other implements he could use against the door. He felt Margaret's hand gripping his arm, and glanced down at her. Her eyes were fixed on the door, and she was white as death. He looked quickly in the same direction, and saw what had attracted her attention. Inch by inch the shutter was sliding back.
"Move!" Peter said under his breath, but it seemed as though she either did not hear him, or dared not stir. He slipped in front of her, shielding her; there was no time to force her over to the wall.
The panel slid still farther; they saw a cowled face behind the grille, and through the slits in the cowl eyes glittered as the light caught them.
Peter stood perfectly still, and his mouth felt unpleasantly dry all at once.
The sinister face disappeared; there was a sound of bolts being drawn, and the door was opened. On the threshold stood the Monk, an automatic in his right hand. He put up his other hand, and pulled the cowl back from his head.
A bitter cry broke from Margaret. "My God! You!" she gasped.
For the Monk was none other than Michael Strange.
Chapter Seventeen
For an instant they all three stared at one another. Then Strange said in a voice of blank surprise: "How the devil did you get here?" His eyes travelled to Margaret's tense face, and he took a quick step towards her. "Please don't look like that! It's all right, Miss Fortescue."
Peter decided that he could not have recovered from the blow on his head so completely as he had thought. "How did we get here?" he repeated. "That won't quite do, Master Monk! I don't know what your little game is, but…'
Strange said impatiently: "I'm not the Monk. Oh, I know I'm togged up in the same disguise, but you can't really think I'm he!"
Margaret leaned forward eagerly. "You're not? Oh, I said you couldn't be!"
His eyes softened. "You believe me, Miss Fortescue? Without proof? In spite of appearances?"
She nodded. "If you tell me so," she said quite simply.
It seemed as though he was going to take her hand, but he did not. He said only: "Thank you." Then he turned to Peter. "I told you you'd get yourself into a mess if you didn't stop poking your nose into my affairs," he remarked cheerfully. "I'm not the Monk, and my name isn't Strange. I'm Inspector Draycott, of the C.I.D." He thrust his hand into the front of his robe. "I've got a card somewhere, in case you still don't believe me."
"Draycott!" Peter said. "You don't mean you're the man who handled that big case against Williams last year?"
"I did, yes. Who told you? Malcolm? I was always afraid he might spot me."
"I don't think he ever saw you till we came down here," Peter said, feeling rather limp. "Then are you after the Monk?"
"Of course. I've been after him for months."
"And you've known about this place all the time?"
"I've suspected it, but I only found the way in to-night. Look here, I think we'd better reserve my story till we're out of this, don't you? Miss Fortescue must be worn out. How did you get here?"