It was true. The window was so high above the ground that there was no way in which the lad could secure so much as a finger-hold. He looked around for some object upon which to stand, but he could find none.
"Well, I'll have to go out through the house," he told himself. "There is no help for it."
Slowly and silently he climbed the steps once more, and as silently opened the door. There was light in the hall, and the boy could make out which way to go. He turned toward the room in which he had been taken prisoner and entered softly.
There, stretched out on the bed, was the Apache chief's lieutenant. Duval himself was not to be seen.
Hal, with revolver ready, tiptoed into the room. He saw a revolver on the little table, and muttered to himself:
"Careless of him."
At that moment the man on the bed turned and slowly opened his eyes. A cry of terror escaped him, as his gaze rested upon Hal, whom he was morally certain was in a living tomb in the cellar.
"Ghost, go away!" he exclaimed.
Hal laughed loudly, and it was no ghost laugh, either. The man in the bed sat up.
"How did you get out of there?" he demanded, as if it were the most momentous question in the world.