There was a flight of stone stairs which terminated in a narrow passage, barred by yet another door, which was also open. The corridor was well-lighted by three globes set at intervals in the ceiling, and the acrid smell of exploded cordite filled the confined space of the passage, which was empty.
“There must be a room opening from here,” said Carver, “whose are these?”
He stooped and picked up an old pair of gloves that lay on the floor and pushed them into his pocket.
He looked round for Rex Lander. That young man was sitting on the top step of the stairs, his face in his hands.
“There’s no sense in questioning him,” said Carver in an undertone, “where is his uncle?”
Tab walked rapidly down the passage and came to a door on the left. It was a narrow door painted black, and deeply recessed in the thick wall. There was no handle and only a tiny keyhole. Four inches from its top was a steel plate pierced with small holes for the purpose of ventilation. He pushed the door, but it was locked. Then he peered through the ventilator.
He saw a vault which he guessed was about ten feet long by eight feet wide. Fixed to the rough walls were a number of steel shelves, loaded up with black iron boxes. A brilliant light came from a globe in the vaulted roof, and he saw plainly.
At the farther end of the room was a plain table, but it was not at this he was looking, but at the figure crouched against one of its legs. The face was turned in his direction.
It was the face of Jesse Trasmere and he was dead.