At that word, uttered as it was in a tone inexorable as fate, my last ray of hope went out. The voice was that of a woman.
I however, made a strong effort for the preservation of my dignity and person.
"And will Samuel Pollard's oldest and best-beloved son, the kind-hearted and honest Dwight, lend himself to a scheme of common fraud and violence?" I asked.
The reply came in his brother's most sarcastic tones. "Dwight has left us," he declared. "We have no need of honesty or kind-heartedness here. What we want for this business is an immovable determination."
Startled, I looked up. The lantern which had hitherto swung from the hand of my guide stood on the floor. By its light three things were visible. First, that we stood at the head of a staircase descending into a depth of darkness which the eye could not pierce; secondly, that in all the area about me but two persons stood; and third, that of these two persons one of them was masked and clad in a long black garment, such as is worn at masquerade balls under the name of a domino. Struck with an icy chill, I looked down again. Why had I allowed myself to be caught in such a trap? Why had I not followed Mr. Nicholls immediately to Boston when I heard that he was no longer in town? Or, better still, why had I not manufactured for myself a safeguard in the form of a letter to that gentleman, informing him of the important document which I held, and the danger in which it possibly stood from the family into whose toils I had now fallen? I could have cursed myself for my dereliction.
"David Barrows," came in imperative tones from the masked figure, "will you tell us where this will is?"
"No," I returned.
"Is it not on your person?" the inquisitorial voice pursued.
"It is not," I answered, firmly, thankful that I spoke the truth in this.
"It is in your rooms, then; in your desk, perhaps?"