"But he allows you to carry the keys?"
"Yes; he trusts me. He knows I'm none too fond of the devilish hole." Tom ferried across to the broken-down landing-place near the door of the keep. They got out.
"Here you are," said Tom. "Go inside if you wish."
Carl took the key.
"I'll not be long," he said, as he put it in the lock. It turned with difficulty, and as he pushed the nail-studded old oak door open there was a cool, damp, vault-like smell.
"Reckon you'll come out quick enough," said Tom. "Best be careful; there's some old broken steps lead down under the moat—a dungeon or summat's there." He swore as his foot slipped and he almost fell into the water.
"That's a sure sign we're not wanted here," said Tom gloomily.
Carl smiled and went inside. It was a curious, gruesome place, and the dank air was stifling. He climbed the stone steps upward until he came to a small room. The walls were bare but there were a bed and chairs and tables, all of oak, an iron ring in the wall, a rusty chain, and a padlock of huge size lay on the stone floor, unlocked. The slit in the wall gave enough light to see. Carl stood on a chair and looked out. He saw Tom, waved his hand, but there was no response.
"He can't see me," thought Carl. "It's strange; he's looking straight here."
There were more stairs. At the top he found another room exactly similar to the one below, furnished in the same bare way. In one corner he saw something gray. Examining it, it proved to be a flimsy gauze-like wrap; it was not old, nor torn. There was a white cloth, also a pair of soft slippers.