A trap-door was lifted, disclosing a dark opening leading to unknown depths below, out of which rushed a noisome stench causing the men by its side to draw back with exclamations of disgust.
"Now, then, down wid him," whispered the proprietor of the Donegal Shades. "It's as putty a grave as wan might ax for. Drop him in, byes, an' it's done nice an' handy, only there's niver a praste to shrive him—worse luck. We must bury the poor cuss widout book nor bell."
Raising the inanimate form of the detective between them, Callister, Tisdale and Cutts dropped it into the darkness of the open trap, while P. Slattery, letting go the iron ring, jumped heavily upon the lid.
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
TREASURE HUNTING.
"Hey, you Garibaldi!"
"Ay, ay! Alla righta!"
"Coast clear?"
"Beta your lifa!"