Steadman could have fancied that there was something hysterical in that last laugh. But he had not time to think of it, to speculate as to the identity of the figure on the dais that the yellow domino and the mask concealed. He was being hurried along at a rate that did not give him time to raise his naked, shackled feet. They dragged helplessly along the stone pavement, for, once they had left that sinister yellow room, there were no carpets. Two or three times Steadman felt wood and guessed they were being taken through rooms, and several times for a few paces there would be oilcloth. Once his knee was banged against something that he felt certain was the corner of a wooden chair; once a splinter ran into his foot. It was evident that either they were being taken in and out or that many of the houses in that neighbourhood must have means of communication, and must necessarily be in the occupation of members of the Yellow Gang.
At last there was a pause, a door was unlocked and they were pushed inside a room with bare plank floor. They were propped up against the wall; something was thrown on the boards; the bandage over Steadman's eyes was pulled roughly off. A voice with a harsh, uncouth accent, singularly unlike the soft purring voice that had spoken from the dais in the Yellow Room, said abruptly:
“The Great Yellow Dog has sent you these two rugs. They will serve to keep you warm. He regrets very much that you will be kept waiting. But unfortunately it is low tide and the river is not up yet.”
Then the door was closed, they heard the key turn; the captives were left alone in their prison.
Steadman's eyes, aching from the tight bandage, were full of water: for a few minutes he could see nothing. He would have given worlds to rub his eyes, but he could not move his arms one inch upwards. However, as the mist before his eyes cleared he saw that they were both propped up against a plain whitewashed wall, in a room that was absolutely bare, except that a fur rug lay at his feet and another at the feet of the inspector farther along.
Steadman could turn his head, almost the only movement that was free, and he saw that the detective had fared worse at the hands of their capturers than he had himself. Furnival's face was grazed on the forehead and cheek. It was flecked with blood and slime. As Steadman watched, his fellow-sufferer sank on the rug at his feet with a muffled sound of utter exhaustion. Steadman was not inclined to give up easily and, leaning there, he tried to work the knot of the string that tied his gag, but in vain. The members of the Yellow Gang had done their work thoroughly. He looked round the room. It was absolutely bare of furniture and indescribably dirty. It was lighted dimly by a small window set rather high and guarded by iron bars. As Steadman's dazed faculties returned he became aware of a lapping sound and realized that the river must be just outside. The full meaning of that last message from the Yellow Dog dawned upon him now.
As Steadman gazed round the room and then at his exhausted companion, the conviction forced itself upon him that, as far as all human probability lay, their very moments were numbered. Try as he would he could not free his hands. There appeared to be no possibility of escape except by the door or window, and he had heard the door locked and saw that it was of unusual stoutness, while the iron bars across the window spoke for themselves. In his present helpless condition what gleam of hope could there be?
He followed Furnival's example and dropped on the rug at his feet, finding the fall unpleasantly hard even with the rug over the floor.
As he lay there trying to rest his aching bones, while his eyes watched the particularly solid-looking door hopelessly, he became aware of a faint, sliding, grating sound. With a sudden accession of hope he glanced around him. The inspector, lying on his rug, apparently heard nothing. For a few minutes—they seemed to him an eternity—Steadman could see nothing. He was telling himself that the noise he heard must be that of some mouse or rat gnawing in the woodwork, when his eye caught a faint movement under the door. Hope sprang up again as he watched.
Yes, there could be no mistake, something was moving! There was just a narrow space under the door; had there been a carpet it would have been useless, but, as it was, that sliding, scraping sound continued and presently he saw that it was the blade of a knife that was coming through, a short, sharp blade it looked like, and he guessed that it was the handle that was proving the difficulty. Presently, however, it was overcome, and with an apparently sharp push from behind knife and handle both came through. Something white, a piece of paper, was fastened to the latter. Steadman lay and gazed at it. The distance between him and the door, short though it was, seemed, in his present state, almost insurmountable, and yet in that knife and bit of paper lay his only chance of life. And there was so little time! Not one tiny second to be wasted. By some means he must get possession of the knife.