Inwardly on fire, imagining a thousand and one horrors centring about the figure of Phil Abingdon, but retaining his outward calm by dint of a giant effort, he pressed this bell and waited.
Perhaps two minutes elapsed. Then the glass doors beyond the gilded screen were drawn open, and the now-familiar voice spoke:
“Mr. Paul Harley?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I have made my final decision.”
“And that is?”
“I agree.”
“You are wise,” the voice replied. “A statement will be placed before you for signature. When you have signed it, ring the bell again, and in a few minutes you will be free.”
Vaguely he detected the speaker withdrawing. Thereupon, heaving a loud sigh, he removed his coat, looked about him as if in quest of some place to hang it, and finally, fixing his gaze upon the studded grating, stood upon the divan and hung his coat over the spy-hole! This accomplished, he turned.
The table was slowly sinking through the gap in the floor beneath.
Treading softly, he moved forward and seated himself cross-legged upon it! It continued to descend, and he found himself in absolute darkness.