“I suppose,” said Alva, and his full lips drew back and showed his teeth in a smile, “you will now call the police.”
“I hardly think we’ll go to that extreme,” replied Ashton-Kirk. “The Mexican government possibly would be interested to know who was guilty of the murder of three members of the Campe family, but we’ll hold that in reserve for a while, at least.”
“You couldn’t prove anything,” sneered Alva.
“Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Alva. The mark of your hand is plain in your work, and it would not be at all difficult to tie you up in it.” He nodded to the man, quietly. “But,” said he, “we’ll say nothing about that now. I’m giving you a chance—not for your sake, nor for the sake of any of your friends, of course—but to spare an entirely innocent young man a family scandal.”
He pointed to the underground passage.
“Waste no time in going,” said he. “And let us see no more of you.”
Sullenly the seven, like wild beasts, longing, but not daring to leap upon their captors, turned to the passage. Alva’s chair was rolled into it, then the other followed, muttering and with many sidelong glances.
“Good-night,” called Scanlon into the tunnel. “Hope you’ve had a good time.”
Then the great stone swung shut and closed them out.
“I don’t think you’ll ever be bothered by any of those gentlemen again,” said Ashton-Kirk, to Campe. “They were interested in the plates, and not at all in you. However,” as they ascended the steps, “I’d have that passage filled in, if I were you, and meant to spend much time at Schwartzberg.”