The old man's bright eyes blinked like an owl's. He lay close against the wall, and now Banks saw one finger—one free finger—dart out and tap the plaster.
"Roll away from the hole," said Banks. Then the match scorched him, and he withdrew his hand and head. He sat back for a second or two, considering the situation.
"The old fiend!" he muttered. "He must be mad—or the devil himself. This explains the other thing that happened to poor Fletcher—the attack in the woods. Oh, the cunning old beast!"
Now he set to work with his hands, tearing away the light materials of the wall in strips and lumps. He put his hand through, found that Fletcher had rolled away, and then wriggled through himself. It was a tight passage, but at last it was safely accomplished. To remove the gag from Fletcher's stiff jaws was the work of a few seconds. To untie and unwind the complicated knots and cords that bound the old fellow's body and limbs took fully half an hour. During that time, Fletcher did not say one word.
For a little while after the freeing of Timothy Fletcher, Banks sagged weakly against the floor. His head was spinning again. He closed his eyes against the blackness, and began to drift off into a delightful, restful dream. He was all done—all in—down and out! What was the good of worrying? What was the good of anything? He had escaped from his cell. He had found Fletcher and set him free. He had earned his rest.
Timothy Fletcher dragged himself over to where Mr. Banks sagged against the door like a big, half-empty sack. Having spent half an hour in moving his tongue up and down, and round and round in his mouth, he now found himself in possession of a fragment of voice. Also, the blood was beginning to move in his arms and legs again. His mind was as clear as glass. He fastened his thin fingers in his rescuer's collar, and shook that careless head until it flopped and knocked against the door.
"Wake up!" he croaked. "Wake up! We got to get out of here."
Banks opened his eyes, and, in the dark, grabbed Fletcher with his big hands. For a moment he mistook the servant for the master, and, with a sudden, furious surge of strength, he shook him as a terrier shakes a rat. Fletcher yelled, and clawed the sportsman in the face. Then Banks realized what he was doing.
"Sorry," he gasped. "I was half asleep. How are we to get out?"
Fletcher did not answer immediately, but lay panting in the dust. At last he raised himself to his hands and knees. "This door," he whispered. "It is locked—that is all. You are strong. We must get out! Quick! Smash it!"