"A quarter of an hour. Let me think."
"You'll get nothing from that blockhead, sir!" cried Brockman. "We're losing valuable time!"
Zuker had drawn near the well. His hand rested upon the handle. Wyndham was a cool boy, whom it took a great deal to disturb, but it must be confessed that he required all his coolness and self-possession at that moment. He was fearful lest Zuker might catch a glimpse of Paul down the well. But, fortunately, he was too intent on questioning Wyndham. So, after asking him one or two more questions, he said cuttingly:
"You're a sharp youth. You will set the Thames on fire some day—ugh!"
He looked for the moment as though he would spurn Wyndham with his foot; but instead of doing so he gave a vicious twist to the well-handle—to the no small alarm of Wyndham—and hastened after his tool and servant, Brockman.
Wyndham leapt to the windlass. The twist given by the German had set the bucket in motion. Paul was rapidly descending in the bucket to the bottom! He seized the handle in his hand and held on to it with all his strength. It vibrated as though it were a live thing. He feared that the sudden strain upon the chain might snap it in twain, but it held firm.
"Hi, hi!" he cried below. "Are you all right?"
A moment of intense silence—a moment which seemed interminable to the boy clinging to the handle of the windlass; then, to his great relief, the voice of Paul came faintly up the well:
"All right! But—but it's been a near thing!"
"Hold tight. I'm going to haul you up!"