“It’s an odd time of morning for a passer-by,” Hilary said. “There. It is striking two.”
“Look here,” Sard said, stooping down; “I’ve guessed the secret of this wall. It has no door; but it slides in grooves to and fro. They seem to have oiled the runners. I’m going to strike a light to see which way the thing runs. Hold this twine: it is tarry. I’ll light it. It will make a candle.”
He took a small hank of roping twine, lit it and held it to the wall. “Look here,” he said, “at what is on my hands: blood. This which I thought was oil is blood. There can be no doubt of that. They have spattered blood all over this wall here.”
“They have killed her, then!”
“Not they. This is not the blood of a murder,” Sard said. “Look, it is splashed high up on the wall. It has been flung from a cup at those images.”
It was undoubtedly so.
“This seems to be a pretty devilish place,” Hilary said.
“We will shame the devil before we leave it. Now come here, behind me, Mr. Kingsborough; dig your fingers into this panel; that’s you. Now, heave; heave and start her; oh, heave! handsomely, handsomely; she is moving.”
The heavy panel of the wall slowly slid away to their right. A waft of the smoke of burning carib leaf came into their faces, so that they tasted rather than smelled it. It was sickly to taste and dizzying to breathe. Sard stopped heaving at the panel and peered into the opening which they had made.
They were looking into a large room, which ran further back (that is, away from the Plaza front) than they had expected. There were some upright things, they could not see what, in the middle of the room; all very dim. To the right of these there was a brazier glowing faintly with charcoal on which carib leaf had been crumbled. Sard, who was nearest to the opening, felt at once that there was somebody there. His dream of the mountains came back to him with a shock. He called in a low voice: