Muggs had not struck the Black Star a light blow, and when the master crook fell, Muggs knew he would remain unconscious for some time to come. He was sobbing and calling to Verbeck in a low voice as he put his foot beneath the table and felt for the button. He could not find it at first, for in his eagerness he was not methodical. Then he quieted down, and, getting down on hands and knees, went over the floor, inch by inch, until he felt a little knob through the rug.
His hand went out; he pressed the knob. At the end of the table appeared a yawning chasm, as a section of the flooring fell back. Muggs was at its side in an instant.
“Boss! Boss!” he called.
“I’m all right, Muggs! Not even scratched, and not stunned. Hurry up and get me out of here. And watch that chap——”
Muggs was on his feet, looking wildly about the room. There was no ladder, no rope, nothing that could reach to the bottom of that twelve-foot pit. But there was a couch in the corner, and Muggs tore off the cover and carried it to the pit’s edge.
“Grab it, while I brace myself, boss,” he directed. “Then climb—I can hold you.”
And so Verbeck emerged from the pit, bracing his feet against the wall of it and climbing hand over hand up the couch cover, while Muggs, above, braced his feet and bent back, gripping the other end of the cloth. Then the trapdoor was closed again.
“Have you killed him?” Verbeck cried when he saw the form of the Black Star on the floor.
“I felt like it, but I thought you’d want him again, boss. I just gave him a smash behind the ear.”
“Um!”