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The hum of machinery continued. For what seemed an eternity Paul Temple and Steve Trent were imprisoned in the slowly descending lift. Neither spoke. Both could only wonder what would be the climax of this strange turn of events. There was scarcely room to move.

There was nothing to be seen. The panel was the only opening, and this was now closed. There was not even a grill of any kind through which they could peer as they descended.

Down and down it went. Seconds lengthened into minutes. Only the continued vibration told them they were still moving.

‘We’re stopping, Steve…’ said Temple. Suddenly, almost simultaneously, the lift gave a sharp jerk and the vibration ceased.

‘Open the panel, Steve!’

Steve was in a better position to slide it back than Temple.

‘I wonder where we are!’ she speculated, a little nervously, as she stretched out her arm to open it.

‘Probably the bargain basement!’ replied Paul Temple, with grim flippancy. ‘Here, I’ll try that!’ he exclaimed, as he saw that Steve’s efforts to open the panel were proving fruitless. With a twist of his arm, he had the panel open.

Both looked out through the opening. Dimly they could make out that they were in some kind of vault or passage. They could see two sides, six or eight feet apart. In the rear was nothing but hollow darkness.

Everything was deathly still. The air seemed clammy, even though it was cold. They appeared to be deep under the earth in some kind of queer subterranean corridor.

Paul Temple had now pulled out his electric torch, thanking his lucky stars for having taken it with him, and suddenly pressed the switch.

‘Looks like a passage of some sort!’ he said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Steve in a whisper. They made out the stone slabs that lined the sides and the floor. They were slimy and covered with some growth that looked like moss. Stalactites, up to nearly a foot long, hung down from the roof. The passage itself seemed just high enough for a tall man to walk upright. The surface of the walls and ground were wet. A few yards from the lift was a cavity in which were two strong wooden cases with heavy padlocks fastening them, and bound with iron.

‘Can you get out all right?’ Paul Temple asked.

‘I think so,’ Steve replied as she started to clamber through the opening. ‘They don’t give you much room, do they?’

Taking care not to rip her dinner dress, she finally managed to pull herself through. The bulkier Temple speedily followed her. Together they stood in front of the lift peering into the distance which the light from the little electric torch could not reach.

Temple put his arm round Steve’s waist to reassure her, and slowly and carefully, watching out for any openings in the ground beneath them, they commenced to move forward. He handed Steve the torch. His right hand he put into his pocket. There, he had his precious automatic, and his fingers closed round it with an immense feeling of satisfaction. He pulled it out and showed it to Steve so that she, too, could share in the feeling of security it gave. With his thumb, he pressed down the safety catch, and as they walked along, held it in front of him, ready for any emergency.

‘I wonder where this place leads to?’ he remarked.

‘I’ve got a pretty awful sense of direction,’ replied Steve, ‘but we seem to be going towards the village, as far as I can make out.’

‘We’ll walk to the end!’ he said, after they had gone on a few yards.

The light from the torch began to flicker. The battery was fading. Temple cursed himself mentally for not making sure that it would last. He determined also, if he ever came out of this extraordinary situation alive, to buy a lamp with a hand-operated dynamo.

‘Can you see all right?’ he asked Steve after a while.

‘Not too badly,’ she replied.

‘This passage is pretty old,’ remarked Temple. ‘It must have been here for years.’

Silently they trudged on. They were now getting more accustomed to the darkness and to the slippery surface of the stone flags over which they were walking. Now they were beginning to step out in a sharp walk. This was necessary, if only to keep warm in the damp, cold air of the passage.

‘Seems fairly long, doesn’t it?’ said Temple after a few minutes.

Suddenly Steve came to a stop. She pulled herself free from him and pointed into the distance.

‘Paul!’ she burst out. ‘Paul, there’s a light!’

The novelist’s eyesight was not quite so keen as Steve’s, but he strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the light in the distance.

‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Oh, yes!’ he said suddenly.

‘It’s an oil lamp!’ said Steve. ‘Someone must have been here quite recently.’

‘Someone’s been here quite recently, all right!’ Temple remarked grimly. ‘Don’t worry about that. I wonder where the devil this passage leads to?’ he added thoughtfully.

Steve began to smile. A fantastic thought had occurred to her. ‘Most probably to “The Little General”,’ she laughed. ‘Everything seems to lead towards—’

‘By Timothy, Steve!’ interrupted Paul Temple, a tremendous elation in his voice. ‘By Timothy, you’re right!’

‘Why, Paul, you don’t—’

Paul Temple did not let Steve finish her sentence. He explained the conclusion to which he had jumped from her chance remark.

‘“The Little General” lies about a hundred yards from Ashdown House,’ he said. ‘We must have come fifty yards already—’

‘Then you really think this passage leads towards the inn?’ Steve interrupted, with obvious excitement in her voice.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ he replied grimly. ‘We’ll soon find out, Steve.’

Slowly they plodded on. Paul Temple had switched his torch off, but the faint beams from the oil lamp seemed to be reflected backwards and forwards from the shiny walls. There was just enough light for them to make their way. Moreover, they did not care to advertise their approach by using the torch.

Occasionally, one or other of them kicked hard at a stone that projected from the other flags. Otherwise their progress remained uninterrupted. There were no hidden pitfalls, no obstructions against which they might stumble. Only here and there an old barrel, its iron hoops thick with rust.

At last they came to a halt.

‘There’s some sort of wooden staircase over there!’ exclaimed Steve in guarded tones.

‘Yes. We’re underneath the inn, all right,’ Temple whispered. ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.’

They made their way towards the stairs that Steve had indicated.

‘Can you hear voices?’ asked Paul Temple suddenly.

Steve listened intently. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, I think I can.’

They could both hear men talking, but it was all too far away to distinguish what was being said.

‘If we climb to the top of the staircase, we might hear better,’ suggested Temple.

‘Yes,’ said Steve, obviously keyed up with excitement.

She set her foot on the first step and proceeded to make her way up the staircase, followed closely by Temple.

‘Be careful, Steve!’ he admonished her.

Taking care not to make any noise, they climbed the old wooden stairs. The voices were growing more distinct now, but at all cost their presence must not be discovered.

Suddenly, a board creaked very loudly. The noise rang through the silent gloom almost like a pistol shot. Both stopped dead. Temple gently pushed Steve to the edge of the stairs.

‘Don’t walk in the middle,’ he whispered.

Keeping close to the rail on the outside, Steve slowly and cautiously picked her way up, with Paul Temple immediately behind her. At last they came to a door from which the voices were now clearly audible.

‘Paul, listen!’ said Steve, turning round. ‘Listen—’

Both stood motionless behind the door. They recognized the accents of Dr. Milton and Horace Daley, the innkeeper. Both appeared angry. Both were raising their voices.

‘What’s happened to Skid?’ demanded Horace suddenly.

There was a pause. Then they heard Dr. Milton’s answer.

‘He’s dead!’

‘Dead!’ the innkeeper shrieked. ‘I thought you said the smash was—’

‘It wasn’t the smash, Horace,’ came from the doctor in subdued tones.

There was a slight pause before Horace spoke again. ‘Then what was it?’ he said suddenly.

‘He—had—to be taken care of.’

‘Taken—care—of,’ repeated the innkeeper. There was a pause. ‘You don’t mean the Knave—’

‘Yes.’

Steve turned to look at her companion through the gloom, but she could not make out the expression on Temple’s face.

‘Why should he?’ she now heard Horace demand angrily. ‘Why should Skid be murdered?’

‘He had to go,’ the doctor answered. ‘He was on the point of talking.’

‘How do we know he was on the point of talking?’

‘That’s what I says,’ came from a third voice they could not identify.

‘It was the same with Snipey Jackson and Lefty. They did their job well and then…’

Dr. Milton cut the innkeeper short.

‘Jackson was a fool!’ they heard him exclaim. ‘And an incompetent fool into the bargain. He didn’t even wear gloves on the Leicester job.’

‘And what about Lefty?’

‘That was my fault,’ the doctor replied more calmly. ‘I was sorry about that. I only meant to give the poor devil a whiff of chloroform and he passed out on me.’

There was silence for a few moments. Then they heard Horace Daley speak again.

‘Yes, well, it sounds all right. But I’m just getting a bit windy. The Knave is just a little too smart for my liking.’

‘A little too smart, eh, Horace? How very interesting!’

It was a woman’s voice. With a start of surprise, Temple recognized it. He bent over towards Steve and whispered: ‘Diana Thornley!’

‘If the Knave wasn’t smart, we shouldn’t be here, my friend,’ the doctor continued; ‘you can take that from me.’

‘What do you mean?’ they heard Horace Daley ask, with hesitancy and nervousness in his voice.

Dr. Milton explained. ‘The Knave received information about a valuable diamond owned by a Nottingham firm called “Trenchman’s”. Diana went round there this morning and had a look at it.’

Paul Temple found a cold little hand being inserted into his. It was far too dark for either of them to see more than a dim outline of the other, but he knew by the way her hand trembled that Steve was excited.

‘We were supposed to make all the arrangements about the job tonight,’ the doctor was saying. ‘But this morning, after Diana got back, the Chief rang up and—’

He paused. ‘Well?’ demanded Horace.

‘The Trenchman diamond was a trap – a charming little noose, my friend, for us all to put our pretty little necks in!’

‘Strewth!’ exclaimed the innkeeper. ‘What about Diana?’ he asked quickly. ‘How do we know she wasn’t spotted?’

‘We don’t know. Diana’s got to lie low for a while.’

Once again they heard the mysterious third voice join in the discussion.

‘It’s a damn good job the Chief found out about Trenchman’s, or we should ’ave been in a pretty pickle.’

‘Whose idea was it to have a “plant” like that?’ demanded Horace Daley. ‘I bet a fiver it—’

Dr. Milton interrupted him again. ‘It was Mr. Paul Temple’s idea, unless I’m very much mistaken. And, unless I’m very much mistaken, Mr. Temple is going to be aptly rewarded for his originality.’

‘Then heaven help the poor devil if you get your hands on him, Doc,’ they heard the innkeeper burst out. ‘D’you remember that Greek fellow…and the small drops of acid? I’ll never forget his face. Why, he was—’

Dr. Milton began to laugh. It was a hard, cruel laugh, and Steve shuddered violently as she heard him. Temple put his arm about her protectively. The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started.

‘Now listen,’ said Milton sharply. ‘The Chief’s got another idea up his sleeve, and as far as I can make out, it’s going to be a pretty big proposition. He wants you all here, in Room 7, on Saturday, at nine sharp.’

‘Is—is he coming?’ inquired Horace.

‘Yes,’ the doctor answered. ‘Yes, he’s coming.’ He paused. ‘Dixie,’ he said, obviously addressing the owner of the unknown voice, ‘I want you to meet Snow at the house. I’ll see he gets his instructions.’ Dr. Milton’s voice seemed to grow fainter, as if he were moving across the room.

‘Paul!’ exclaimed Steve, in an urgent whisper. ‘We’d better return to the house.’

Temple nodded. At any moment, now, the door in front of them might open. There was not a moment to lose.

With the knowledge that there were no obstructions or unforeseen obstacles of any kind on the stairs, they were able to go down more quickly than they had ascended. Nevertheless, they took care to avoid undue noise.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to work the lift?’ inquired Steve, as they came to the end of the third and last flight of stairs.

‘We’ll have to,’ was the reply. ‘Mind that bottom step!’

‘You can see quite clearly when you get used to the light,’ said Steve, when they stood in the passage again.

‘Yes.’ Paul Temple paused. ‘Now come on, Steve,’ he urged. ‘We must hurry.’

They had to cover little more than a hundred yards, and both felt that they would be safer when they were back in the house again. It was dangerous to sprint along the slippery passage, but nevertheless, Temple broke into a sharp trot, with Steve close behind him. The faint, flickering light of his torch, added to the rays from the oil lamp in the passage, helped them to cover the distance fairly quickly. It was not long before they were back at the lift.

‘Here we are!’ exclaimed Steve breathlessly, but at the same time, relieved.

Then they noticed the panel was closed. In sudden fear, Temple began to struggle with it. It yielded to his efforts.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s got it.…Hurry, Steve!’

He bundled her unceremoniously through the opening and quickly climbed in himself. It was the work of another instant to close the panel again.

They had solved the secret of the lift. The panel was at the same time entrance and operating switch. Once again they heard the hum of the electric motor, and after a second or two, they felt the lift slowly moving.

‘It’s working!’ exclaimed Steve a little nervously. ‘We’re going up!’

Paul Temple nodded. ‘I hope Boris Karloff hasn’t missed us,’ he said grimly.

At last, the slow upward movement ceased and, of its own accord, the panel opened.

Paul Temple looked cautiously out into the drawing-room.

‘Is—the room empty?’ inquired Steve softly.

‘Yes.’

The room was just as they had left it. In all probability their absence had not even been noticed. Paul Temple stepped through the opening and turned round to assist Steve.

‘Careful!’ he warned. He paused and looked round. ‘Now how do we close this panel from the…Oh, the statue, Steve!’

‘I’ll do it.’ Steve walked quickly over to the little statue she had discovered, gave it a twist, and to her satisfaction saw the panel close.

‘Good!’ exclaimed Paul Temple.

‘Now what…?’ she asked. ‘Are we going to wait here, or—’

‘No. I think we’ve seen enough of Ashdown House for the time being. I’ll get hold of this butler fellow and tell him we’re not waiting.’ He looked round. ‘Is that a bell push?’ he asked, pointing to the wall by the fireside, where Steve was standing.

‘Yes. I’ll ring.’

She pressed it. Then they sat down in two of the armchairs the room boasted and tried desperately hard to look both very bored and very innocent. At last they heard footsteps in the hall outside.

‘He’s coming!’ said Temple softly.

The door opened, and Snow Williams appeared.

‘You rang, sir?’

‘Yes,’ said Temple with such a perfect air of indifference that Steve had difficulty in keeping her face straight. ‘We’ve, er, decided not to wait for Dr. Milton. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give him my kind regards?’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Snow led the way to the door without any apparent suspicions. ‘Good night, sir! Good night, Miss!’

Steve and Temple drank in the fresh air greedily. Both felt glad to be outside again. As they walked slowly over to the car neither of them spoke. Both seemed to have far too much to think about. Paul Temple folded a rug over Steve’s knees, made sure she was comfortable, then pressed the self-starter. After two or three turns, the engine was firing, and he slipped the gear lever into position. A few moments later, they were shooting down the drive towards the main road which would take them back to Bramley Lodge.

After a mile or so, Paul Temple suddenly came to a standstill beside the road and switched off his headlamps. Steve looked round at him in surprise.

‘Why have you stopped?’ she asked.

‘Because I want to have a chat with you, young lady!’ he replied.

‘Oh, Mr. Temple!’ said Steve flippantly and with a laugh.

‘Steve,’ he said very soberly, ‘I’m worried.’

‘Worried?’ she echoed, now serious again; ‘Why?’

‘I’m worried because you’re mixed up in this affair. These people are dangerous. They’ll stop at nothing. You’ve got to watch yourself, Steve. You’ve got to watch yourself.’

‘Don’t worry…I will!’ she said reassuringly. ‘You’re very sweet!’ she added gently.

‘Ever since that incident in your flat…with the record…I’ve been very anxious for you.’ There was urgency in Temple’s voice. ‘Can’t you go away for a little while, Steve. Perhaps—’

‘No,’ she replied decisively. ‘No, and even if I could – I shouldn’t. This is my affair, Paul – my affair more than anyone else’s – the Knave of Diamonds killed my brother, remember—’

Her knuckles were clenched and Temple noticed the row of white spots where the bones were forced against the skin. Her lips were pressed firmly together. Paul Temple realized that his passenger could be a very determined little person when she chose.

‘But Steve—’

‘But that isn’t everything,’ she continued firmly. ‘The whole affair is much deeper than that, Paul…much deeper.’ For a few moments, she sat in silence, her face set in a deep frown. ‘From the very beginning of the Cape Town–Simonstown robberies eight years ago,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘I knew, and hated, the name of Max Lorraine. I knew that sooner or later…I should have to face him. Please believe me, Paul, when I say—’

Again Temple interrupted her. ‘Steve, listen!’ he said suddenly. ‘We agreed that it would be Paul Temple versus Max Lorraine. You heard them talking in that room at the inn: and you know the type of people we’re up against.’ He paused expressively. ‘Steve, for my sake – you’ve got to keep out of this!’

‘But Paul—’

He refused to let her say what she wanted. ‘I shall make a point of seeing Sir Graham first thing tomorrow morning,’ he said, ‘the inn must be raided on Thursday, at all cost!’ Suddenly, he changed the subject. ‘Steve, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.’

‘Well?’ There was something in the tone of his voice that had aroused her curiosity.

‘You remember, you told me, that when your brother was investigating the Cape Town–Simonstown robberies he worked with another officer, a man who was later murdered by Max Lorraine?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Tell me – what did they call that man?’

Steve tried to recall the name of the man to mind. ‘Bellman!’ she exclaimed at length, ‘Sydney Bellman.’ Then after a pause she said: ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I was just wondering,’ said Paul Temple quietly, ‘I was just wondering.’