“Are you sure no one has heard you?” panted the man.
Roberts sprang to his feet and crept swiftly toward his own room. He peered out around the front of the bed, but a single glance was enough to show him that the door was still shut, and that there was no longer any sign of trouble. Then once more he came back and stooped before the keyhole.
“Tell me,” he gasped breathlessly, “tell me your story. How did it happen? Where were you?”
“I lived in Caracas, in Venezuela,” the other responded. “I was in business there for years. One day I was surprised in my own house by three men, who overpowered me and drove me away in a carriage. They drugged me in some way or other, for the next time I knew anything I was a prisoner in this room.”
“And you have stayed there ever since?” panted Roberts, almost beside himself with horror.
“For twenty years!” the man responded.
“And you have made no attempt to get out?”
“What good would it do?” cried the other. “They have iron bars for all the windows and they keep my door locked.”
“How do they pass you food?” inquired Roberts. “They must open the door.”
“Why, yes,” the man answered, “they open the door, but what good does that do? There are always a half-dozen men standing in the doorway, and they would overpower me if I made any resistance.”