Before the word had left his lips Nancy was already at the farther door.
"Quick, Joe!" she cried piteously. "Quick! Bring the candle."
In two strides the prize-fighter was beside her.
"You stand back," he commanded hoarsely, and, thrusting the candlestick into her hands, gripped hold of the knob.
As the door swung open Nancy raised the light. Its faint gleam flickered round the sordid room, disclosing the damp and peeling wallpaper and litter of empty whisky bottles which lay about the floor.
Joe's glance travelled swiftly from one corner to another. "There's no one 'ere," he muttered. "We'd best try the floor above."
Nancy caught him by the sleeve. "Listen," she cried tensely. "What's that?"
From below came an unmistakable sound—the steady but muffled splash of running water.
For a second they both stood there motionless, then, with a sudden exclamation, Nancy pushed her way past and stumbled blindly forward toward the trap-door.
"Joe," she gasped, "he's down there! I know it. I feel it." She sank on her knees, and setting the candle on the floor beside her, began tugging desperately at the iron bolt.