circumstances.

"Putting _up_ the shutters? Pulling them down, you mean! there
must be a window of sorts in this room."

But after careful search we came to the conclusion that we were
directly under the road-bed, and that the only opening of any kind was
the door through which we had passed. I thought of that door and the
face of the man behind it. For what purpose save robbery and murder
was such a room designed? I could not confront the certainty of
violence with a jest, as Ajax did, but I was of his opinion otherwise
expressed: we had been trapped like rats in a blind drain, and would
be knocked on the head--presently.

The uncertainty began to gnaw at our vitals. We did not speak, for
darkness is the twin of silence, but our thoughts ran riot. I remember
that I almost screamed when Ajax laid his hand on my shoulder, and yet
I knew that he was standing by my side.

"I shall try the heathen Chinee," he whispered. So we felt our way to
the door and tapped three times, very softly, on the centre panel. To
the Oriental mind those taps spell bribery, but the door remained
shut.

"What have you been thinking about?" said Ajax, after another silence.

"My God--don't ask me."

"Brace up!" said my brother. I confess that he has steadier nerves
than mine, but then, you see, he has not my imagination. I put my hand
into his, and the grip he gave me was reassuring. I reflected that men
built upon the lines of Ajax are not easily knocked on the head.

"It's a tight place," he continued. "But we've been in tight places
before, although none that smells as close as this infernal hole. Now
listen: I'm prepared to lay odds that The Babe is not an opium fiend
at all, and has never been near this den. He wrote that letter at the
saloon, didn't he? And ten to one he borrowed the paper from the bar-
tender. That's why it smelled of opium. The handwriting was very
shaky. Why? because The Babe was only half alive after a prolonged
spree. That accounted for the tone of the letter. The Babe was
thinking of the parsonage, and his mother's knee, and all that. You
follow me--eh? Now then, I think it barely possible that instead of
our rescuing The Babe, he will rescue us. We got in late last night,
but our names were chronicled in the morning papers, for I saw them
there. If The Babe sees a paper he will go to our hotel, and----"

"If we're hanging by that thread to eternity, God help us," I replied
bitterly, for the grim humour of