Then, taking a heavy piece of the bedstead, he struck down with all his might.
The iron struck the plaster, but, contrary to his expectation, he was unable to force a hole through the ceiling. Then, suddenly, to his dismay, he discovered that what he had believed to be plaster was concrete—that the floor was a fireproof one, and that being so, any attempt to penetrate it without proper tools was foredoomed to failure.
He gazed about him, utterly bewildered.
What could have happened after he had drunk that glass of port so kindly offered him by the handsome Mrs. Evans? That he was in the hands of enemies it was plain, but who were they? He wondered whether his incarceration in that place had any connection with his inquisitiveness concerning Bernard Boyne.
He reflected. Boyne had not been cognisant of being followed. He was convinced of that. Had he been so, he would not have paid those nocturnal visits to Pont Street and Upper Brook Street.
In the evening light he stood utterly perplexed. At his feet he saw that the boards were discoloured by a large brown stain some three feet in diameter. One part of it was thick, as though dark paint had been spilled there. He bent to examine it more closely, and from the wood scraped a portion of the thick substance with his finger-nail.
The stuff seemed curiously sticky, very much like paint. He took it across to the window, and there examined it minutely in the light, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.
Next moment a cry of horror escaped him. "Great Heavens!" he gasped. "Why—it's blood!"
Apparently there had been a pool of blood there, but it had nearly all dried up, save that portion which had not yet become completely hardened.
What could it mean?