Chick gingerly stepped into the hole, with his back to the outer world and his feet straight out before him.
Hardly had he assumed his position when he began to slide, and in a second he was scooting down a long, smooth chute in black darkness. Suddenly he stopped in the midst of what felt like a gigantic feather bed.
He heard his chief chuckling at the hole, and he realized that when slaves were brought into this house, every care was taken that they should not be hurt in the process.
He got to his feet, and found himself standing on a smooth floor, while Nick softly warned him to keep out of the way.
There was a slight scuffle in the distance, then a whisking sound, and his employer shot into the midst of the feather bed, just as he had done.
The glow of an electric flash light showed him that his chief was by his side, smiling, as he cast the light about.
“You see, Chick, this room is cut off from all the inhabited part of the house—except in a roundabout way that I will show you later. It is solidly built, and no one could get at the people housed here except by that one opening in the outer wall. The one by which we came in.”
Nick also pointed out marks on the wall where bunks had been, and told his assistant that it had been possible for nearly two hundred persons to sleep in the room at one time.
“I have been told that more than two hundred refugees have stayed here all night on occasion. But I doubt whether they slept much. Now come with me. I’m going to find out to-night, if I can, where the real Howard Milmarsh is.”
Chick did not reply. He had implicit confidence in the great detective by whom he was proud to be employed, and he only wondered how the object was to be accomplished—not whether it would be.