VII
A COOL RECEPTION
Before their eyes, accustomed to the brightness of early afternoon, in which all things were actively visible, could sufficiently adjust themselves to distinguish objects in the shadowy gloom, they were thrust into a room, the door of which was bolted after them, and they were left in utter darkness.
"You there, Carrick?" whispered Carter.
"'Ere, sir," came the reply from an invisible neighborhood. "I'm trussed up like a duck. These bloomin' cords are cuttin' my wrists. It seems to me, sir," he continued ruefully, "that if we 'ad wanted to be jugged, we could 'ave gotten the job done easier by styin' in New York. 'Don't like a man,—to jail with 'im,' seems to be these chaps' motto."
"We're evidently in the bad books of the Gray Man, at any rate, Carrick."
"I'm onto his gyme, sure's my name's Tod."
"What is it?"
"'E thinks we're spies."
Carter laughed incredulously. "He has put us in a good place, then. Can't gather much information in this tomb, that is certain. We're getting into their revolution by the back door, it seems."