About
him he made out indistinctly the black encompassing walls of his prison.
It seemed an interminable time before he could rise and stand on his
feet and reach the candle. Slowly he felt his way along the wall until
he came to a low, heavy door, barred from the outside, and just beyond
this door he found a narrow aperture cut through the decaying logs. It
was a yard in length and barely wide enough for him to thrust through an
arm. Three more of these narrow slits in his prison walls he found
before he came back again to the door. They reminded him of the hole
through which he had looked out on the plague-stricken cabin at the
_Maison de Mort Rouge_, and he guessed that through them came what
little fresh air found its way into the dungeon.
Near the table on which he replaced the candle was a stool, and he sat
down. Carefully he went through his pockets. His belt and revolver were
gone. He had been stripped of letters and papers. Not so much as a match
had been left him by his captors.
He stopped in his search and listened. Faintly there came to him the
ticking of his watch. He felt in his watch pocket. It was empty. Again
he listened. This time he was sure that the sound came from his feet and
he lowered the candle until the light of it glistened on something
yellow an arm's distance away.
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