Still there was no voice in answer. The only sound was a clanking of metal.
"Is your uncle deaf?" asked Warrender.
"He wasn't ten years ago. You try, Phil; your voice may carry better than mine."
"Are you Mr. Ambrose Pratt?" Warrender shouted, then turned his ear to the hole.
"Yes. Who are you?"
The words were spoken in tones so low and hollow that Warrender could scarcely distinguish them.
"Friends," he replied. "Your nephew Percy. Come to the door."
"What did you say?"
"Come--to--the--door!" Warrender bawled, spacing out the words.
"Why do you mock me? You know I cannot."