A moment later he seized the man and shook him roughly.
"Where is she—tell me?" he demanded.
The man snarled some kind of reply, refusing to say a word about her.
"Tell me," repeated Kennedy.
"Humph!" snorted the prisoner, more close-mouthed than ever.
Kennedy was furious. As he sent the man reeling away from him, he seized the oxygen helmet and began putting it on. There was only one thing to do—to follow the clue of the golden strands of hair.
Down into the pest hole he went, his head protected by the oxygen helmet. As he cautiously took one step after another down a series of iron rungs inside the hole, he found that the water was up to his chest. At the bottom of the perpendicular pit was a narrow low passage way, leading off. It was just about big enough to get through, but he managed to grope along it. He came at last to the main drain, an old stone-walled sewer, as murky a place as could well be imagined, filled with the foulest sewer gas. He was hardly able to keep his feet in the swirling, bubbling water that swept past, almost up to his neck.
The minutes passed as the policeman and I watched our prisoner in the cellar, by the tube. I looked anxiously at my watch.
"Craig!" I shouted at last, unable to control my fears for him.
No answer. To go down after him seemed out of the question.