“Bouter nundred feet,” Orace guessed, and in this he was approximately right, being no more than sixty feet out.
The girl leaned over and cupped her hands.
“Simon!” she called. “Simon!”
Only the echo answered her.
“Mr. Templar, sir—Orace speakin,” bellowed the man, but it was only his own voice that boomed back out of the darkness in reply.
Patricia’s face was bowed in her hands.
“Saint, Saint. . . . Oh, God. . . . My darling. . . .” The words came brokenly, dazedly. “Dear God, if you can save him now, give me his life!”
Presently she looked at Orace.
“Are you sure he went that way? The other trap didn’t catch him.”
Orace had been examining the pitfall, and now, by the light of the torch, he pointed to the evidence. A square of the flooring had been cut out with a keyhole saw, leaving only the flimsiest connections at the corners which the weight of a man would destroy at once. The jagged ends of broken wood could be seen at once, and from one of these Orace plucked a shred of tweed and brought it close to the light.