“There’s no blood on the stairs,” observed the baronet, in a whisper.
“They’ve left the key in the door,” muttered Arthur.
“Hold the light,” said Railsford, turning the key, and entering.
Prostrate on the ground, bound hand and foot, and enveloped down to the waist in a sack, lay the figure of a man, motionless, but certainly not dead, for sounds proceeded from the depths of the canvas. In a moment Railsford had knelt and cut the cords round the prisoner’s feet and hands, while Ainger drew the sack from the head.
Arthur gave a whistle of consternation as the features of Mr Bickers came to light, pale and stern. The sudden sight of Medusa’s head could hardly have had a more petrifying effect. The victim himself was the first to recover. Stretching his arms and legs in relief, he sat up, and coolly said,—
“Thank you.”
“Whatever does all this mean?” exclaimed Railsford, helping him to rise, for he was very stiff and cramped.
“That I cannot say. Kindly reach my hat, Ainger.”
“Who has done this?”
“That, too, I cannot say. I can walk, thank you.”