There could be no harm in exploring it a little way. He might just as well know where it led to, if it were possible to find out. The information might be useful. Paul was animated with the adventurous spirit of the explorer, which knows no rest until it is satisfied. He crossed to the opening. At the moment he reached it, a figure emerged from the darkness, and confronted him. It was Zuker.
It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Paul could not move. He stood there as one rooted to the spot. Before he could move, the man had sprung upon him with the swiftness of a tiger, and seizing him by the throat, dragged him to the light.
"You!" he cried. "The boy from Garside. Your name is——"
"Paul Percival," gasped Paul, as the fierce grip relaxed.
"Paul Percival. Ach Himmel! It is Fate itself."
He had in turn shrunk back, as though Paul were no longer a being of flesh and blood, but a phantom. Then he murmured hoarsely to himself: "Weevil was right. The hand of a Higher than man is in it."
In the uncertain light he had not at first recognized Paul; but now he saw him, and knew that just as he had once been face to face with the father at a supreme crisis in his life, now he was face to face with the son. Had Paul seized that moment of stupefaction, he might have escaped, but he made no effort. And the moment passed.
"Who showed you this place? Who brought you here?" demanded Zuker, himself again.
"No one; I found it out myself."
"How?"