“I don’t like the looks of it,” remarked Charles. “There have been knives flying here—and throats cut. That smear on the wall is hardly dry.”
“We ought to get out,” I said. “We were safer in the Dwarf’s cave.”
“Let us wait till the old rat returns,” he answered. “There will be time then.”
The heaviness of the place made me feel that I was standing in the face of danger. Everything I touched seemed to warn me that we were falling deeper and deeper into a trap. The broken chair, the hole in the plaster, the blood upon the wall, the very darkness of the room, but above all the slow-witted craftiness of the old man, sent the creeps along my spine and made me anxious.
A half hour passed. We had paced the length of the room a dozen times. We had sat down and risen again more than once. Charles went to the door.
“I’ll take a look up the road,” he said. “If he’s not in sight, we’ll go.”
I turned to follow him. He snapped the latch. He rattled it. He shook it with all his might. He faced me with his face gone white.
“We’re locked in!” he exclaimed. “The old rat has made us prisoners.”
I ran back to the door that led to the kitchen.
“We’re caught!” I called. “The windows are too small for us to crawl out. The old fellow has gone to summon our enemies.”