“That’s just what we’ll do, sir,” said the man who had picked up the flashlight. “It’s just a bit farther on.”
The Negroes seemed able to find their way in the dark, which, Tom reflected, was more than he could have done. In a short time they led him, gently enough, into a little clearing and there, showing dimly in the light of the stars, was the house where Tom and Ned had been prisoners.
If Tom had any compunctions about entering the house again he had no time to exercise them. Nor, be it known, had he the inclination. He was there for a purpose and intended to carry it out.
“Right this way, sir,” said one of the Negroes, letting go of Tom’s right arm and preceding him to the front door. “They’re expecting you.”
He knocked—whether in a signal code or not Tom was unable to determine—and the door was opened, letting out a flood of light. The place seemed to have been prepared for the reception of the young inventor.
“Go straight ahead,” said the Negro who had opened the door, as he stepped back to allow Tom to enter.
Tom walked into a hall, furnished only with a chair. One of the three Negroes—which he could not determine—glided ahead of him, tapped on a door at the end of the corridor, and opened it in response to a voice that said:
“Enter!”
Tom Swift saw before him a brilliantly lighted room. Gathered around a table in the middle were half a dozen men. Each one wore a black mask and through the eye-holes in them Tom felt himself being sharply scrutinized.
“You may go, Richard,” said one of the men in cultured tones to the Negro who had opened the door.