As Henry Roberts listened to that narrative he could scarcely believe the evidences of his own senses. He had long ago given up any attempt to think what could be the explanation of this extraordinary state of affairs. He made one more attempt upon the door, but that apparently caused the utmost terror to the other man.
“You can’t do it,” he said. “It is locked, and that Frenchman has the key.”
“What Frenchman?” asked Roberts.
“The man who is in charge of this place,” said the other. “The one whose prisoner I am.”
“Is he a short, stout man, with gray hair?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “that is he.”
Roberts shuddered involuntarily.
“Oh, don’t speak of him!” continued the other breathlessly. “He is a fiend! A perfect fiend!”
“What did he do?” panted Roberts.
“I cannot tell you all,” was the reply. “It would be too horrible. He is the master of this place and it is he who keeps me prisoner. On no account resist him or cry out for help—it is utterly useless.”