She did this so regularly that it seemed as if she had a purpose in it, though what it was, was by no means clear.
She was carried up a pair of stairs and put in a room again, and, as before, seated in a chair.
“There,” said a voice that she recognized as that of the brown-bearded man, “I reckon you’ll stay here for a while.”
Ida lifted her hands, which had been left free, and tore the bandage from her eyes.
She was not in the same room, and it was lighted so well that she could see that she had made no mistake in supposing that one of the men was the one who had traveled from New York at midday with her, and that the other was the tough who had, in accosting her, induced her to enter the dark hallway.
She had not spoken a word.
“She’s game,” said the tough.
“I should say so,” replied the other. “But we’ll take some of the gameness out of her before we get through with her.”
The two withdrew, locking and bolting the doors behind them, leaving Ida alone in the dark to think over her strange plight, and whether her telegram would reach Chick, and, if it did, if Chick would find her.