“That’s right,” said his jailer. “Now, come along; and I warn you once for all, that if you break faith and attempt to call out, you die, as sure as your name’s Barclay Drinkwater!”
Mr Barclay felt as if he was stunned; and, half-led, half pushed, he was taken into what had once been the pantry, but was now a curious-looking place, with a bricked round well in the middle, while on one side was fixed a large pair of blacksmith’s forge bellows, connected with a zinc pipe which went right down into the well.
“What does all this mean?” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“Wait, and you’ll see,” was all the reply he could get; and he stared round in amazement at the heaps of new clay that had been dug out, the piles of old bricks which had evidently been obtained by pulling down partition walls somewhere in the house, the lower part of which seemed, as it were, being transformed by workmen. Lastly, there were oil-lamps and a pile of cement, the material for which was obtained from a barrel marked “Flour.”
The man called Ned was better, and joined them there, the three being evidently prepared for work, in which Mr Barclay soon found that he was to participate, and at this point he made a stand.
“Look here,” he said; “I demand an explanation. What does all this mean?”
“Are you ready for work?” cried the leader of the little gang, seizing him by the collar menacingly.
“You people have obtained possession of this house under false pretences, and you have made the place an utter wreck. I insist on knowing what it means.”
“You do—do you?” said the man, thrusting him back, and holding him with his shoulders against a pile of bricks. “Then, once for all, I tell you this: you’ve got to work here along with us in silence, and hard too, or else be shut up in that cellar in darkness, and half-starved till we set you free.”
“The police shall—”