"That I won't, unless you give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you don't produce any firearms," replied the man, with a dig at Laurence's ribs which caused the latter to lounge out with his knee at where he imagined the other to be.
"All right, I promise."
"There you are, then. Fork out the gold boy."
Laurence fumbled in his pocket on his arms being released, and produced a coin from his pocket—the first he laid hands on—and passed it to Smith. As he did so, a sound broke upon the grave-like stillness of this house of mystery—a sound that seemed to rise from the basement or cellars, a long-drawn, terrible cry—the unnatural, nay, fiendish shriek of a person in the agonies of death.
And simultaneously the door opened, and Laurence found himself thrust hurriedly out into the night.
Before he could turn, or could realise the meaning of that awful sound, the door clanged upon him.
Then once more there was silence, unbroken save by the sudden hoot of an owl in a distant tree.