"He? Poor fool—he can do no harm. He knows nothing. Let him go," she answered contemptuously.
In a few minutes' time Wimsey found himself bundled unceremoniously into the depths of the cellar. He was a little puzzled. That they should refuse to let him go, even at the price of Number One's life, he could understand. He had taken the risk with his eyes open. But that they should leave him as a witness against them seemed incredible.
The men who had taken him down strapped his ankles together and departed, switching the lights out as they went.
"Hi! Kamerad!" said Wimsey. "It's a bit lonely sitting here. You might leave the light on."
"It's all right, my friend," was the reply. "You will not be in the dark long. They have set the time-fuse."
The other man laughed with rich enjoyment, and they went out together. So that was it. He was to be blown up with the house. In that case the President would certainly be dead before he was extricated. This worried Wimsey; he would rather have been able to bring the big crook to justice. After all, Scotland Yard had been waiting six years to break up this gang.
He waited, straining his ears. It seemed to him that he heard footsteps over his head. The gang had all crept out by this time....
There was certainly a creak. The trap-door had opened; he felt, rather than heard, somebody creeping into the cellar.
"Hush!" said a voice in his ear. Soft hands passed over his face, and went fumbling about his body. There came the cold touch of steel on his wrists. The ropes slackened and dropped off. A key clicked in the handcuffs. The strap about his ankles was unbuckled.
"Quick! quick! they have set the time-switch. The house is mined. Follow me as fast as you can. I stole back—I said I had left my jewellery. It was true. I left it on purpose. He must be saved—only you can do it. Make haste!"