There was indeed a faint noise from the black depths below us. A rope alongside the rough ladder began to move, as though someone was pulling it taut. We gazed down.
"Craig! Craig!" I called. "Is that you?"
No answer. But the rope still moved. Perhaps the helmet made it impossible for him to hear.
He had struggled back in the swirling current almost exhausted by his helpless burden. Holding Elaine's head above the surface of the water and pulling on the rope to attract my attention, for he could neither hear nor shout, he had taken a turn of the rope about Elaine. I tried pulling on it. There was something heavy on the other end and I kept on pulling.
At last I could make out Kennedy dimly mounting the ladder. The weight was the unconscious body of Elaine which he steadied as he mounted. I tugged harder and he slowly came up.
Together, at last, the policeman and I reached down and pulled them out.
We placed Elaine on the cellar floor, as comfortably as was possible, and the policeman began his first-aid motions for resuscitation.
"No—no," cried Kennedy, "Not here—take her up where the air is fresher."
With his revolver still drawn to overawe the prisoner, the policeman forced him to aid us in carrying her up the rickety flight of cellar steps. Kennedy followed quickly, unscrewing the oxygen helmet as he went.
In the deserted living room we deposited our senseless burden, while
Kennedy, the helmet off now, bent over her.