Roberts felt a grim smile cross his face as he heard those words; he clutched his revolver tightly.
“I will risk it,” he thought. “They will have to open that door to give me some food!”
“They never fail to watch this door,” the voice whispered in response to an inquiry from Roberts. “They will hear me and come in here, and then—then——”
There was an instant or two of silence, during which Roberts waited for the man to continue. But he did not do so. For suddenly the deep silence which reigned through the place was broken by a different sound, one that made the American’s hair fairly rise. It was as if the teeth of the other man were chattering audibly.
“They are coming!” he whispered in a low gasp, as if he were trying to speak but dared not. And then a second later Roberts’s ears were smitten by a loud, piercing scream. He heard the man bound to his feet.
“No! no!” he shrieked. “Stop! You shall not! It was not my fault!”
At the same instant came the sound of several muffled footsteps about the room, and, in another voice, several words which Roberts could not understand.
The agonized screams of the other person grew louder and louder, accompanied by sounds which told plainly of a struggle. They lasted for only a few seconds, however, and then came a crash and all was silent.
During that incident Henry Roberts had remained crouching at the door, too horrified to move, but, as the sounds died away, for the first time he thought of his own peril and was on his feet with a single spring. He turned and dashed across the floor of the cell. But even as he did so he realized that the few seconds’ hesitation had cost him everything.
The curtain of his bedroom was suddenly pushed aside, and a hand reached in to grasp the door. Like a flash Roberts swung up his revolver and leveled it, but before he could pull the trigger the iron barrier shut to with a clang that seemed to shake every portion of the man’s body.