Confident as to the correctness of my theory, and eager for action to relieve the tension on my nerves in that black silence, I began feeling a way along the wall toward the right, in the direction where I remembered the iron light bracket to be situated. The rough stone surface was unbroken, and I encountered no obstacles under foot, my groping search being finally rewarded by touch of the iron brace. I could clearly trace the form of the bracket, and determine how it was fastened into place, yet to my astonishment there was no remnant of candle remaining in the empty socket. Grease, still warm to the touch, proved conclusively that I had attained the right spot in my search, yet the candle itself had disappeared. Beyond doubt the draught of air had been sufficiently strong to dislodge it from the shallow socket, and it had fallen to the floor. I felt about on hands and knees, but without result, and finally, in sheer desperation, struck my last match. The tiny flare was sufficient to reveal the entire floor space as well as the wall, but there was no remnant of candle visible. I held the sliver of wood, until the flame scorched my fingers, staring about in bewilderment. Then the intense darkness shut me in.
I crouched back to the wall, revolver in hand, and it seemed as though the blood in my veins had turned to ice. What legerdemain was this! The candle was there, and not half burned, when I entered. I saw it with my own eyes. How then—in the name of God—could it have vanished so completely? There was no germ of superstition in my nature, and, had there originally been, it could never have out lived the practical experiences of the past few years. There was but one way to account for this occurrence—some human, aware of my presence, had removed the candle, had stolen through the pitch darkness silently, and as swiftly disappeared. I was locked in, trapped, and not alone!
I confess for an instant I was panic-stricken, shrinking back from the horror of the black unknown which enveloped me. I could see and hear nothing, yet I seemed to feel a ghastly presence skulking behind that impenetrable veil. My first inclination was to creep back to the door, and escape into the outer passage. Yet pride restrained me, pride quickly supplemented by a return of courage. It was a man surely, a thing of flesh and blood, I was called upon to meet. He was no better armed than myself, and he possessed no advantage in that darkness, except his knowledge of surroundings. I straightened up, and advanced slowly, testing the wall with my hand, every muscle stiffened for action, listening for the slightest sound. I encountered nothing, heard nothing, until my groping fingers touched the rough plank of a sleeping berth. I explored this cautiously, lifting the edge of a coarse blanket, and reaching up to make sure the one above was also unoccupied. Satisfied that both were empty I worked my way blindly along to the second tier. As I reached into the lower of the two bunks my finger came in contact with some substance that left the impression of a human body beneath the blanket. I jerked away, startled, expecting my light touch would arouse the occupant. There was no movement, however, nor could I distinguish any sound of breathing.
Convinced I had been mistaken, I reached in once more to assure myself of the truth, and my hand touched cold, clammy flesh. The shock of discovery sent me reeling backward so suddenly that I slipped and fell. It was a man—a dead man! In imagination I could see the wide-open, sightless eyes, staring toward me through the dark. Trembling with the unreasonable terror of unstrung nerves, I yet managed to regain my feet. It was not the dead body, so much as the black gloom, which robbed me of manhood. I could not see where to go, how to escape. At whatever cost I must procure light. The very desperation yielded me reckless courage. Shaking as with palsy, yet with teeth clinched, I reached forward, groping my way back to the side of the bunk. I touched the edge of the blanket, and thrust it away, feeling the body. The man was fully dressed, lying upon his back, and I experienced no difficulty in attaining the pockets of his coat. In the third I found what I sought—a box of matches.
Never before, or since, have I experienced such relief, as when my fingers closed over this precious find. I struck one, and as the phosphorus head burst into flame, stared about the vacant room, and then down into the dead face within the bunk. The man had been killed by the stroke of a hatchet, and was almost unrecognizable. Not until the blazing match had burned to my finger tips was I sure of his identity—then, to my added horror, I recognized Coombs. I struck a second match, assuring myself beyond doubt, and drew the blanket up over the disfigured face. As the brief light flickered and died, I grasped the full significance of the man's death, the probable reason for his being stricken down. Whoever had been hidden behind that picture, crouching in the passage, had overheard his confession to me. This was vengeance wreaked upon a traitor, the executed death sentence of desperate men. And it had just been carried out—within the hour! The murderers might be even now lurking within the shadows watching my every motion.
Again a slender match flared into tiny flame, casting about a dim radius of light, partially reassuring me that I was alone. Before it flickered out into darkness my eyes made two discoveries—the opening of a dark passage to the left of the bunks, and a ghastly hand protruding from the upper berth. I was scarcely sure this last was not a vision of my half-mad brain, but a fourth match revealed it all—above the murdered Coombs, hidden beneath blankets, was the body of the strange man shot in the upper room. My God! the place was a charnel house! a spot accursed! I crept back from that ghastly scene of death as though invisible hands gripped my throat. I fairly choked with the unutterable horror which overcame me. And yet I knew I must act, must go on to the end. Even as I crouched there, trembling and unmanned, seeing visions in the darkness, hearing imaginary sounds, my thought leaped back to the girl upstairs. It was the one remembrance which kept me sane. It was not the dead, but the living, I had to fear, and it was not in my nature to shrink back from any man. I could feel the courage returning, the leap of hot blood through my veins as I straightened up.
I risked one more match to make certain of the opening through the wall, dimly glimpsed beyond the berths. My eyes were not deceived; here was a second wood-supported passage, unblocked so far as I could perceive, but black as pitch. I held the flaming splinter aloft, anxiously scanning the few feet thus revealed, but as it sputtered out, the red ash dropping to the floor, I felt renewed confidence that I was alone, unobserved. Whoever those assassins might be, they had departed, leaving only the helpless dead behind. No doubt they would come again to remove the bodies, to seek refuge in this hidden hole. But for the moment I was there undiscovered, and must utilize each precious instant for discoveries and escape. Wild recklessness, a desire to break away from those grewsome surroundings, overcame all caution. Swiftly as I dared in the dense blackness I crept forward, feeling the smooth wall with eager fingers, my right hand still nervously gripping the revolver butt. Then I came to the door, similar to the other, although no groping about would reveal the catch, or enable me to force it open.
Again I struck a match, guarding the infant flame with both hands against a slight draught which threatened its extinction. There was no sound, no warning of imminent danger. All my coolness had returned, and my every thought centered on quickly discovering the lock of the door. Yet, even in that instant, I caught glimpse of a shadow on the wall, and made one swift, automatic effort to leap aside, dropping the fatal match. The movement was too late! Something descended crashing upon my head, and I pitched forward into unconsciousness.