In the mystery wing of the house, a lone gangster patrolled the dim, lengthy corridor. His vigil took him from the second floor to the first; then back up to the second.
On the upper story, he stopped frequently to lift up square panels in the centers of certain doors, to make sure that no lights glimmered from the rooms within.
Calloused and unimaginative, this watchman was unperturbed by the creaking of the floor beneath his feet, and the strange, grotesque shadows that he encountered in the gloomy light. Fantastic silhouettes did not impress his sordid mind.
He was alert, but calmly so, as he patrolled his course. Reaching the end of the corridor, he turned and went back over the route that he had covered before.
Within a veritable cellroom, Cliff Marsland lay half awake upon a corner couch. The flicker of dim light passed over his eyes as the watching hoodlum lifted the panel in the door that led to the hall. Then the panel closed.
A short time later, Cliff opened his eyes, fancying that another beam of illumination had strayed into the room. Then he felt that he must have been mistaken, for all remained dark by the door. Cliff pitched restlessly. He was wearied by this captivity. He had found himself in this room, weak and pepless, after he had recovered from the effects of the hypo jabbed into his arm.
He had remained here a long while — weeks, it seemed — and his jailers had been uncommunicative. Actually, Cliff realized, his confinement had been a matter of days only; but time had passed dully. He had eaten the food that was furnished him. He did not fear poison for he knew he was completely in the power of his captors. He had realized that he had been receiving a mild opiate for he had constantly lacked strength since his capture.
Even now, although aroused and disgruntled, Cliff could not overcome the drowsiness that gripped him. His restlessness ended. He slept.
Shafts of morning light flung a melancholy glare through the high, glass-barred slits that served as windows in Cliff's prison. The captive awoke and again — as on previous mornings — realized his plight. Cliff was in the same predicament as those other men whom Orlinov had shown him. He was one of the dead who lived.
Cliff raised his head and adjusted his pillow, preparing for another doze. His hand struck something. He raised the pillow; then quickly dropped it while he stared toward the door of the room to make sure that no one was watching him.