EEN

I Lie on a Hard Bed

The journalist from Kansas City was a man of action. He wasted no words
in introducing himself or unfolding his plan of campaign. 'You've got
to follow me, mister, and not deviate one inch from my tracks. The
explaining part will come later. There's big business in this shack
tonight.' He unlocked the little door with scarcely a sound, slid the
crust of snow from his boots, and preceded me into a passage as black
as a cellar. The door swung smoothly behind us, and after the sharp
out-of-doors the air smelt stuffy as the inside of a safe.

A hand reached back to make sure that I followed. We appeared to be in
a flagged passage under the main level of the house. My hobnailed boots
slipped on the floor, and I steadied myself on the wall, which seemed
to be of undressed stone. Mr Donne moved softly and assuredly, for he
was better shod for the job than me, and his guiding hand came back
constantly to make sure of my whereabouts.

I remember that I felt just as I had felt when on that August night I
had explored the crevice of the Coolin--the same sense that something
queer was going to happen, the same recklessness and contentment.
Moving a foot at a time with immense care, we came to a right-hand
turning. Two shallow steps led us to another passage, and then my
groping hands struck a blind wall. The American was beside me, and his
mouth was close to my ear.

'Got to crawl now,' he whispered. 'You lead, mister, while I shed this
coat of mine. Eight feet on your stomach and then upright.'

I wriggled through a low tunnel, broad enough to take three men
abreast, but not two feet high. Half-way through I felt suffocated, for
I never liked holes, and I had a momentary anxiety as to what we were
after in this cellar pilgrimage. Presently I smelt free air and got on
to my knees.

'Right, mister?' came a whisper from behind. My companion seemed to be
waiting till I was through before he followed.

'Right,' I answered, and very carefully rose to my feet.

Then something happened behind me. There was a jar and a bump as if the
roof of the tunnel had subsided. I turned sharply and groped at the
mouth. I stuck my leg down and found a block.

'Donne,' I said, as loud as I dared, 'are you hurt? Where are you?'

But no answer came.

Even then I thought only of an accident. Something had miscarried, and
I was cut off in the cellars of an unfriendly house away from the man
who knew the road and had