As Waving Plume progressed with his labour, he began to realize how very thin the partition actually was. At a heavy pressure of his hand he could feel it spring inwards, and he marked well the progress that he had made. One more vigorous application of the knife, the point sank into the rock and disappeared. His work, for the time, was almost done.
A hole as big as the palm of his hand testified to the vigour of his proceedings. Anxiously gazing through this, he could see the apartment beyond. A small lamp cast an uncertain light, and almost directly before the aperture a dim shadow loomed up. The shadow was that of a woman.
“Adele!”
In a low, but audible whisper the word floated into the room. Bending down her head, she replied:
“Who is it that speaks?”
“A friend—one who would rescue you—Charles Archer.”
“Thank Heaven!”
This, much more in the shape of a fervent prayer than of a reply; then, to Waving Plume:
“If you can aid me, be quick!”
When the three had reached the valley, and were in some manner bidden by the foliage of the trees, a momentary halt was called, and a short consultation was held.