“They couldn’t,” he reasoned. “I have been trapped by that ancient god, or at least by those who, centuries ago, set him there.”
Again he listened, and again he caught that endless tap-tap-tap.
“Water falling,” he said. “But where?”
He began a careful search of the chambers. He examined every nook and corner with elaborate care, but aside from the pool, found not so much as a spot of dampness.
“And yet,” he told himself, “the sound is unmistakable. There is dripping water somewhere. Must be within the walls.”
Once more he set himself listening for Jean’s call. A quarter of an hour, a half hour he waited and listened, but it did not come.
“What can have happened?” he muttered at last. Then he thought of the flashlight. The battery was good for just so long, then would come complete darkness. When would that be? He could not tell. Shuddering, he muttered:
“Might better be now.”
With that he threw off the catch. Sudden darkness followed, but the after image remained. Sitting on the damp floor, staring into the dark, he seemed still to catch the greenish glow of the walls, the yellow gleam of the god and the white flash of jewels.
Have you never attempted to fall asleep while from some distant spot there came with maddening regularity the drip-drip-drip of water? If you have, then perhaps you can share in a degree at least the feeling of Johnny Thompson as he sat there alone, a prisoner of other centuries, listening to that baffling sound within the walls.