It was a battle of one man against nine and the space was so small that Adam Adams could not turn himself. He drew his pistol, but while one man held his wrist another wrenched the weapon from his grasp. Then the detective went down and was severely kicked and pummelled, until to resist further was out of the question.
"He ought to be killed!" cried one man.
"That's right, kill him!" put in several.
"No! no! not yet. We must question him first," said another.
The band surrounded Adam Adams and several pistols were leveled at his head as he arose.
"It's funny how the nigger got down here—" began one of the men.
"Nigger?" broke in another. "He is no nigger. See how the black has rubbed off his face."
The men stepped closer and then one of them gave a start.
"It's the same man!" he cried excitedly. He turned to another. "I thought you said—"
"I did," was the agitated answer. "There's a bloomin' mystery here. He couldn't get out! He was bound and the door was locked—I locked it myself."