In the middle of the room was a huge rock.
An iron ring was mortised in the side of it, to which a short, rusty chain was fastened. This chain held a human being a prisoner by being padlocked around his ankle.
The man was Oliver Dalton.
But the detectives scarcely recognized him.
His face was pale and haggard, his eyes deeply sunken in their sockets, his hair dishevelled, and his face covered with a short beard.
From privations his figure was so shrunken that his clothing hardly fit him, and the garments were so dirty and torn that he looked like a tramp.
Mason and the negro had paused near him.
The villain stood looking at the pitiful object he had so basely wronged with a cold, calculating glance, and finally said to him:
"How are you feeling, Dalton?"
"Oh, you miserable cur——" began the old broker, bitterly.