They led him down to the back part of the house, a miserable, dejected procession. Holding candles over their heads, they descended two sets of winding stone steps, passed along a gloomy corridor till they came to a heavy oak door, which Moreton, the butler, who carried the keys, opened with some difficulty. It led into a dry cellar which had the appearance of a prison cell. There was a single bench set against the wall. Quest looked around quickly.
“This place has been used before now, in the old days, for malefactors,” the Professor remarked. “He’ll be safe there. Craig,” he added, his voice trembling, “Craig—I—I can’t speak to you. How could you!”
There was no answer. Craig’s face was buried in his hands. They left him there and turned the key.
2.
Quest stood, frowning, upon the pavement, gazing at the obviously empty house. He looked once more at the slip of paper which Lenora had given him. There was no possibility of any mistake:—
“Mrs. Willet,
157 Elsmere Road,
Hampstead.”
This was 157 and the house was empty. After a moment’s hesitation he rang the bell at the adjoining door. A woman who had been watching him from the front room, answered the summons at once.
“Can you tell me,” he enquired, “what has become of the lady who used to live at 157—Mrs. Willet?”
“She’s moved,” was the uncompromising reply.
“Do you know where to?” Quest asked eagerly.