Minutes went by. At the end of an hour — as Harry estimated it— the frame had descended only a few inches.
He knew now what his fate would be, and he mopped the perspiration from his forehead. He had his choice. He could speak or be crushed to oblivion beneath the pressure of that descending ceiling.
He knew now why the door was raised above the floor. When the ceiling was down, its top formed a new floor of the passageway.
Harry arose and tottered along the passage toward the door. He was tempted to knock; to yield to his inquisitor. Then he remembered the man’s warning. There could be no trickery! Unless he told everything he knew, he would go back to this corridor of death.
Harry, for the moment, felt that he would tell willingly. Then he realized that he knew but little. How many questions could he answer? His inquisitor believed him to be The Shadow. Would he believe him when he truthfully denied that identity?
Another glance at the ceiling convinced Harry that it was wise to wait. Hours would elapse before the final doom arrived. It would be best to wait; to stand the strain of hours of horror before he chose the last resort of crying for mercy.
He sat on the floor and tried to occupy his mind with other thoughts. But over all came that feverish threat of annihilation. Harry laughed hopelessly and the mirthless sound seemed hollow.
“Death!”
Through his mind still echoed the terrifying verdict. He had hours to wait — for he doubted that the ceiling would be down within a day and a half — yet only one thought could dominate his mind through all that time.
It was the warning of his strange inquisitor that morning — death! — death to The Shadow!