His fugitive had disappeared.
But the room was faintly lighted, as there was a wide window, and in the gloom the detective could see a dark patch in the floor. It was a trapdoor leading evidently to the cellar.
He went down through the opening, finding a flight of stairs which he descended. He could hear footsteps receding through the darkness but he made his way across the uneven floor of the cellar.
The detective stopped and listened. He heard the hurrying footsteps as the smuggler went on to the far end of the cellar. Then, to his great surprise, he heard a voice. In the distance he saw a faint glow of light. Then he saw that the cellar was divided into two parts and that the fugitive had entered a small room.
He crept closer.
“What’s happening?” he heard some one say in a weak voice.
“Everything,” snarled a voice which he recognized as that of Snackley. The detective’s heart leaped. “Everything is happening. The police are here.”
“The police!”
“Yes—the police—state troopers, federal officers and all. But don’t think you’re going to have a chance of squealing on us. I’m going to fix you, as I should have done a long while ago.”
The other voice rose, replete with terror.