Ruth swung round, holding up her hand with the match-heads above her clenched fist The hand trembled slightly.
Only Martin and Stannard wore wrist-watches; these could be heard ticking in the pressure of silence. Martin moistened his lips. Stannard, comfortably smiling, nodded towards the matches.
"Won't you go first, my dear fellow? If not—" "No, you don't!" said Martin.
They both lunged together for a different match. Ricky Fleet, his fists dug so deeply into the pockets of his coat that it seemed to stretch almost to his knees, watched with eyes round and fixed in a kind of incredulous hope. Both contestants, after a glance, opened a hand side by side; and. Ruth expelled her breath.
Stannard had drawn the short match. "Believe me," he said quietly and with evident sincerity, "it is best." Then he became brisk.
"My dear Drake, here is the key to lock the iron door; together with your lamp and, two spare batteries. Mr. Fleet," he indicated a lamp on the floor, "there is your light to guide your party to the main gate. It's a shade past midnight."
Martin felt Ricky clap him on the back at the result of the draw.
"That's all very well, Mr. Ghostmaster," said Ricky, leaning one elbow on the wall and making no pretense of liking Stannard, "but you led us in here. How do you expect us to get out?"
"Ah. Did you observe the floor as we came in?" "Not particularly."
"In the aisle leading out you will find a length of heavy white string. I put it there this afternoon, a clue to the Cretan labyrinth. Follow the string; it will take you to the main gate."