"Where are we?" Peter said, not that he had much hope of getting an answer.
"You're where no one'll ever think to look for you," the man replied.
Margaret said: "But you can't keep us here! Oh please, don't go! You couldn't leave us here to starve!"
"It's none of my business," was the callous answer. "And there's precious little the Monk stops at, I can tell you. You've interfered with him. That's what happens to people as cross the Monk's path." He drew his thumb across his throat in a crude descriptive gesture.
"Look here," Peter said, "I'm a pretty rich man, and if you get us out of this there's a fat reward waiting for you, and no awkward questions asked."
The man laughed. "Me? No bloody fear! Know what happened to Dooval? I've got no wish to go the same road, thank you kindly."
"I'll see nothing happens to you."
"Oh, you will, will you? Think you could stop the Monk? Well, there ain't a soul that knows him, and if you had a guard of fifty policemen he'd still get you. You wouldn't clear out of the Priory, you kept on nosing round after the Monk. And he's got you, and you talk about escaping! You won't do that, my fine gentleman, don't you fret. Nor no one won't recognise you if ever they finds you, for you'll be no more'n a skeleton. You crossed the Monk's path." With that he gave another of Isis brutal laughs, and went out, and shot the bolts home again.
Margaret sat down limply. "Peter, he can't mean that! No one could be as awful as that!"
"Of course they couldn't, Sis. Keep a stiff upper lip. liven supposing they do mean to clear out and leave us to rot, do you suppose Charles is going to do nothing?"