Little sound of voice or movement came to him from without. The rogues, their ruse accomplished, assumed all the secrecy of their profession, and to the noise of boisterous mirth succeeded some fitful suggestions of stealthy toing and froing that it was far more difficult to hear with equanimity.
Fortunately his trial of suspense was a short one. He had not been in the room many minutes, when he became conscious that he was not alone. Somebody had come in, but so softly and with so sidling an action that he was hardly aware of the fact until he heard gentle fingers manipulating the bolts of the shutters. The next moment the flaps were pushed quietly open and white daylight broke into the room.
He was in Darda’s museum—that he had guessed—and advancing towards him was a figure, very placid, very venerable—Mr. Fern, whom it seemed a profanation to dub Jack.
The new-comer stooped a little courteous bow as he came forward.
“We are badly accommodated for seats,” he said in his mild, high voice; “but here is a chair—or the remains of one, and a little steadiness of posture may make it even comfortable to you. Pray avail yourself of it.”
The gentleman laughed.
“If you will untie my hands,” he said.
“I see no difficulty, Mr. Tuke. You will of course give me your parole not to attempt to escape.”
“Am I to be a prisoner in my own lodge?”
“I greatly fear so, sir. This quite unexpected development largely facilitates what might have been otherwise a prolonged and tiresome business, and we can’t afford to let you go. I will be frankness itself, Mr. Tuke; and we really can’t afford it, sir.”