This done, he pulled on the rope, seemingly without an effort, and Michael swung in mid-air. It was uncomfortable; he had an absurd notion that he looked a little ridiculous. The old man guided his feet through the opening and gradually paid out the rope.
“Will you be good enough to tell me when you touch ground,” he asked, “and I will come down to you?”
Looking up, Michael saw the square in the floor grow smaller and smaller, and for an unconscionable time he swung and swayed and turned in mid-air. He thought he was not moving, and then, without warning, his feet touched ground and he called out.
“Are you all right?” said Mr. Longvale pleasantly. “Do you mind stepping a few paces on one side? I am dropping the rope, and it may hurt you.”
Michael gasped, but carried out instructions, and presently he heard the swish of the falling line and the smack of it as it struck the ground. Then the trap-door closed, and there was no other sound but the groaning near at hand.
“Is that you, Penne?”
“Who is it?” asked the other in a frightened voice. “Is it you, Brixan? Where are we? What has happened? How did I get here? That old devil gave me a drink. I ran out—and that’s all I remember. I went to borrow his car. My God, I’m scared! The magneto of mine went wrong.”
“Did you shout when you ran from the house?”
“I think I did. I felt this infernal poison taking effect and dashed out—I don’t remember. Where are you, Brixan? The police will get us out of this, won’t they?”
“Alive, I hope,” said Michael grimly, and he heard the man’s frightened sob, and was sorry he had spoken.