bolt was on my side, and I pushed it
forward. It is a closet, I think." We were in the upper hall now.
"If you will show me the electric switch, Miss Innes, you would better
wait in your own room."

Trembling as I was, I was determined to see that door opened. I hardly
knew what I feared, but so many terrible and inexplicable things had
happened that suspense was worse than certainty.

"I am perfectly cool," I said, "and I am going to remain here."

The lights flashed up along that end of the corridor, throwing the
doors into relief. At the intersection of the small hallway with the
larger, the circular staircase wound its way up, as if it had been an
afterthought of the architect. And just around the corner, in the
small corridor, was the door Mr. Jamieson had indicated. I was still
unfamiliar with the house, and I did not remember the door. My heart
was thumping wildly in my ears, but I nodded to him to go ahead. I was
perhaps eight or ten feet away--and then he threw the bolt back.

"Come out," he said quietly. There was no response. "Come--out," he
repeated. Then--I think he had a revolver, but I am not sure--he
stepped aside and threw the door open.

From where I stood I could not see beyond the door, but I saw Mr.
Jamieson's face change and heard him mutter something, then he bolted
down the stairs, three at a time. When my knees had stopped shaking, I
moved forward, slowly, nervously, until I had a partial view of what
was beyond the door. It seemed at first to be a closet, empty. Then I
went close and examined it, to stop with a shudder. Where the floor
should have been was black void and darkness, from which came the
indescribable, damp smell of the cellars.

Mr. Jamieson had locked somebody in the clothes chute. As I leaned
over I fancied I heard a groan--or was it the wind?

CHAPTER VII

A SPRAINED ANKLE

I was panic-stricken. As I ran along the corridor I was confident that
the mysterious intruder and probable murderer had been found, and that
he lay dead or dying at the foot of the chute. I got down the
staircase somehow, and through the kitchen to the basement stairs. Mr.
Jamieson had been before me, and the door stood open. Liddy was
standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding a frying-pan by the
handle as a weapon.

"Don't go down there," she yelled, when she saw me moving toward the
basement stairs. "Don't you do it, Miss Rachel. That Jamieson's down
there now.