“Pass it over, I’ll see if I can fix it. I’m better acquainted with those things than you.”
De Richleau groped in the gloom till he found Rex’s hand. “Here,” he said, “but whatever you do, don’t let go of that string.”
Rex fumbled with the torch, unscrewing the battery and testing the bulb. “That’s about torn it,” he said. “Bulb’s gone.”
Not a gleam of light showed from any direction as they stood together; the heat seemed to have grown more oppressive than ever in the heavy night-like stillness. A dree, eerie feeling emanated from the knowledge of those rows of corpses standing on either hand.
“Have you no matches?” asked the Duke.
“No, those thieving Bolshies stripped me of every blame’ thing I had. How in heck are we going to get out of here?”
“I wish I knew,” replied De Richleau, anxiously. “Let us try groping our way round the big chamber — we may be able to find the altar by touch.”
“O.K. You go to the left, I’ll go to the right.”
“No, no, once we are separated we should have endless trouble to come together again; you have no idea how deceptive voices are in a place like this. Here, take hold of my belt — and remember, our lives may hang on your keeping firm hold on that piece of string.”
“Just as you say,” Rex agreed.