“Well, he’s out of the picture, now,” declared Bill. “We got him in the tunnel.”
“Yes—and Terry, do you know that he is Mr. Tracey?” Dorothy could not contain the exciting news any longer.
“Great grief! You don’t say so! I never could stand that fellow—didn’t think he had sense enough to come in out of the rain. But then, you never can tell which way a cat will jump.” He stepped closer to the grill and looked anxiously from Bill to Dorothy. “Say, do you think you two could find a way of getting me out of here?”
“We left a grand crowbar in the cellar! Don’t you think we could bash the lock with it, Bill?”
“Might pry it open. But I’m afraid the noise would give us away—”
“Not a chance of that—if you mean it might disturb the poker players,” Terry interrupted. “There’s a perfect whale of a sound proof door at the head of the stairs. I was brought down that way. They always keep it shut.”
“Good!” Bill hurried off to get the crowbar.
“What’s all this about, Dorothy?” asked Terry. “All I know is that these lads held up my car the night of the Sillies. Some bird in a mask drew a gun on me—my eyes were bandaged and I was popped into another bus and brought over here. Where am I, anyway?”
“Why, you’re in that old stone Castle—near North Stamford. This is a diamond smuggling gang we’re up against. The local and the state police, not to mention Secret Service agents, have been scouring the country for you. Wait till you see the newspapers! You’re nationally famous! But your mother and father and the rest of us have been terribly worried.”
Terry nodded. “I’ve been thinking of that,” he replied. “But diamond smugglers, eh! No wonder—” he whistled softly. “You’ve no idea what it was like to be caged up here—thinking of the family and how terrible it was for them—not knowing why I was here, or if I’d ever be set free. Yet they’ve not tried any rough stuff. Gave me plenty of books and magazines, and enough decent food, thank goodness!”