Very gingerly Abbershaw fitted the huge iron key into the cupboard, turned over the lock, and wrenched the door open, starting back instantly.
The noise stopped abruptly.
There was a smothered exclamation from Prenderby and both men stood back in utter amazement.
There, seated upon a heavy oaken shelf in a square cavity just large enough to contain him, his hair over his eyes, his clothes dishevelled, his inane face barely recognizable, was Mr Albert Campion.
For several seconds he did not move, but sat blinking at them through the lank strands of yellow hair over his eyes. Then it was that Abbershaw’s memory revived.
In a flash it came to him where he had seen that vacuous, inoffensive face before, and a slow expression of wonderment came into his eyes.
He did not speak, however, for at that moment Campion stirred, and climbed stiffly out into the room.
‘No deception, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, with a wan attempt at his own facetiousness. ‘All my own work.’
‘How the devil did you get in there?’ The words were Prenderby’s; he had come forward, his eyes fixed upon the forlorn figure in child-like astonishment.
‘Oh – influence, mostly,’ said Campion, and dropped into a chair. But it was evident that a great deal of his spirit had left him. Obviously he had been badly handled, there were crimson marks round his wrists, and his shirt showed ragged beneath his jacket.