Sergeant," I answered brusquely, "and am
going to find out. If he is down below in the cellar we will be at the
bottom of all this mystery in about three minutes. Come on with me. No,
the two of us are enough. Miss Billie, you had better remain here."

"But," catching me by the sleeve, "he is armed; he has a revolver and a
knife."

"Don't worry about that," and I caught the restraining hand in my own.
"One of us will open the door, and the other have the fellow covered
before he knows what to do. Come on, Miles."

It seemed dark below, descending as we did suddenly from out the glare
of the upper hall, and we had to grope our way forward from the foot of
the stairs. I saw Billie follow us a few steps, and then stop, leaning
over to witness all she could. I was a step or so in advance of Miles,
and had drawn my revolver. The cellar was as quiet as a grave. I felt
my way along the wall toward where I remembered this special door to be,
endeavoring to make no noise. My eyes could discern outlines better by
this time, and, as we approached, I became convinced the door we sought
stood ajar. I stopped, startled at the unexpected discovery, and began
feeling about for the bar; it was not in the socket. What could this
mean? Had Billie told us a false story, or had her prisoner, by some
magical means, escaped? She had said he was hacking at the wood with a
knife; could he have cut a hole through sufficiently large to permit of
his lifting the bar? This seemed scarcely possible, yet no other theory
suggested itself, and I stepped rather recklessly forward to
investigate. My foot struck against a body on the floor, and, but for
Miles, I should have fallen. A moment we stood there breathless, and
then he struck a match. A man lay at our feet, face downward, clad in
Federal cavalry uniform, about him a shallow pool of blood.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE DEAD MAN

The match flared out, burning Miles' fingers so he dropped it still
glowing on the floor. We could yet distinguish dimly the outlines of the
man's form at our feet, and I heard Billie come down the stairs behind
us. There was no other sound, except our breathing.

"Strike another, Sergeant," I commanded, surprised by the sound of my
own voice, "and we'll see who the fellow is."

He experienced difficulty making it light, but at last the tiny blaze
illumined the spot where we stood. I bent over, dreading the task, and
turned the dead man's face up to the flare. He was a