He shot the beam of an electric lamp into the tomb.
Patsy looked and saw—the long, wooden case and the florist’s boxes seen in the undertaker’s wagon that morning.
He could not speak, but he glared at the smiling miscreant near by, and Deland laughed audibly.
“A safe concealment, Garvan,” he remarked. “Even your famous Nick Carter will never think of this. Nor will you ever inform him. For, after removing the plunder for which we had labored—I shall leave you here!”
Patsy felt a chill run down his spine, and a cold perspiration broke out all over him.
“You will not be found,” Deland added, with merciless deliberation. “There may be no occasion to reopen this tomb for years. Nor can you escape, or make yourself heard, for we shall bind your feet and leave you in the box now containing part of our booty. Move lively, mates! The sooner we are away, now, the better.”
“Gee! here’s a fine outlook,” thought Patsy, steadying his nerves. “This miscreant means what he said. Nor will either of these rascals oppose him. Great guns! it looks tough, for fair!”
The three ruffians, Deland watching, already were transferring the pasteboard boxes to the wagon, a task that occupied them only a few minutes.
The cover then was removed from the undertaker’s box, which stood on the floor of the tomb.
Patsy could only stand and gaze.