CHAPTER LVII. THE CAVERN IN THE CLIFF.

I opened my eyes in darkness. How long I had remained insensible I did not know, nor did I know where I was. All that I was conscious of at first was a dull pain in my head, but presently I was sensible of other facts. My hands were tied behind me, and my mouth was gagged, so that I could only utter unintelligible moans. To my astonishment my moans were answered by similar sounds at a short distance from me. Pain and suffering are selfish and dominant qualities, and some few moments passed before I thought of my brave Sophy. Then it occurred to me that the moans I heard proceeded from her, and that she was in the same condition as myself. My immediate feeling was one of thankfulness that she was alive. In vain did I strive to free my hands; in vain did I strive to speak intelligible words; in vain did I strive to pierce the black darkness in which we were enveloped. I did not know whether it was day or night, and I shuddered to think of the fate in store for us. Soon I found myself forgetting my own peril entirely, and dwelling only upon poor Sophy's. Bitterly did I reproach myself for bringing her to this pass, for it was I, and I alone, who was responsible for the doom which would surely overtake her. I had no doubt that we were imprisoned here to die, and it was I who had sealed her fate.

My thoughts did not flow steadily and uninterruptedly. Every now and then I relapsed into unconsciousness, and when I revived it seemed to me as if I took up quite naturally the thread of my reflections at the point at which they were broken off. These intervals of insensibility may have been long or short for all I knew. I was starving; I was parched; I would have given the world for a drink of water; but I can say truthfully that if water had been available for only one of us, I would have set my lips hard and given the relief to my companion in misery. I have read of exquisite tortures inflicted upon unfortunate people by barbarous nations--aye, and by some civilized nations as well--but no tortures could have been keener than those I endured. Minutes were like hours, hours like days. It was impossible under such conditions to keep count of time.

There were sounds of movement outside our prison house, if house it was, sounds of scraping feet and falling stones. I strained my ears. Nearer and nearer came these sounds, until they were within a few feet of me in my rear, but I was so securely bound that I could not turn my head. One word was spoken in the form of a question:

"Alive?"

The voice was that of Dr. Peterssen. I had never heard it, but I would have staked my hopes of release upon the issue. Not by the faintest moan did Sophy or I answer this ruthless question. A match was struck, a candle was lighted, and Dr. Peterssen stood between us, holding the candle above his head: With malicious significance he put the candle close to poor Sophy's face, then close to mine, and waved his left hand as though he were introducing us to each other. I gazed at Sophy, who was as little able to move as I was myself, and the tears came into my eyes as I noted the absence of reproach in her observance of me. Indeed, her expression was one of pity, and not for herself.

"Touching, isn't it?" asked Dr. Peterssen, and then cried savagely, "You pair of beauties! You reap what you have sown!"

By the dim light I perceived that we were in a kind of cave, the entrance to which was at the back of us, and I judged that the cavity was low down one of the dangerous cliffs of which we had been warned. After his attack upon us Dr. Peterssen must have carried us here and buried us alive, as it were. I subsequently learned that my surmise was correct, and that I had hit upon the exact method of our imprisonment.

Dr. Peterssen stuck the candle, in a niche, and approached me.

"Would you like to be free to speak?" he inquired. "If so, move your head."

I moved my head.

"You will not shout?" he continued. "You will not cry for help? Move your head again, and I accept it as your word of honor. You are a gentleman, and would not forfeit it." There was a frightful scorn in his voice when he referred to me as a gentleman.

I moved my head again, and he took the gag from my mouth.

"Raise your voice above its natural tone, and I cut this beauty's fingers off."

He took a clasp-knife from his pocket and opened the blade. It was sharp, it was bright, and I knew he would keep his word.

"A drink of water," I murmured.

"I have it here. Drink." He held an uncorked bottle to my lips.

"Not for me," I said. "For her."

"You will drink first," he said; "then she shall have her turn. If you refuse neither of you shall touch it."

I drank, and I saw that Sophy closed her eyes while I did so. Nectar was never so sweet as that long draught, for he did not stint me. Then he replaced the gag in my mouth, and removing Sophy's, went through the same process with her.

"That's jolly," said Sophy, faintly.

"Yes," said the scoundrel, "you will be very jolly by the time I have done with you. Listen to me. You clever couple are as completely in my power as if we were on a desert island. Not a human being is within miles of us. To show you how little I care for your cries, I free both your tongues." Once more he took the gag from my mouth. "Only if you speak too loudly, each shall suffer for the other. I will cut you to pieces before each other's eyes if you disobey me. So my clever little beauty, you came into my house as a dumb girl. Are you dumb? Answer--quick!"

"No, I ain't," said Sophy; "you know that as well as I do."

"But you played your part well--I will say that of you--and went about like a sly mute, eyes and ears open, ready for treachery. If I had suspected, you would never have got out alive. Answer my questions, and answer them truthfully, if you do not wish to be tortured to death. Did you steal the desk?" Sophy was silent; he laid the keen blade of the knife he held on her face. "Answer!"

"Answer him, Sophy," I said, fearing for the child.

"Yes," she said, "I did steal the desk."

"Who set you on?"

"I did," I replied, quickly. "She is not to blame. Upon me should fall the punishment, not upon her."

"It shall fall upon both of you, and upon your comrade who brought her to me, if only I can lay hands on him. There was a secret in that desk, was there not? Don't keep me waiting too long."

"There was," I said.

"Did you find it?"

"Not I, but another found it."

"Your friend, and that sharp-witted gentleman from Switzerland. A copy of a marriage certificate, was it not?"

"Yes."

"To think," he said bitterly, "that that fool should have had the desk in his possession all these years, and never discovered it? He is rightly served. He can play no fool's tricks where he is now.

"He is dead?" I said.

"He is dead. I killed him, as I intend to kill you, only yours will be a longer and more lingering death. Do you think my confession injudicious? You are mistaken. You will never more see the light of day; you will never more set eyes upon a human being but myself. You are here, in a tomb. This is your grave. I can afford to be candid with you. Open speaking is a luxury in which I can freely indulge. Here, eat." He fed us with hard dry bread, and we both ate ravenously, he watching us the while with malignant eyes. "Am I not a merciful jailer? But I don't want you to die just yet. You shall suffer still more. Tell me why you have been hunting me down?"

"I was engaged in befriending a much-injured lady."

"You had better have looked after your own business, and left me to manage my own unmolested. A much-injured lady? Christian name, Emilia?"

"Yes. I cannot injure her by answering you truthfully. She has powerful friends near her who are capable of protecting her."

"Doubtless. Something more was discovered through this little witch here, was there not? Remember what I have threatened you with. The truth I will have, if I have to cut it out of your heart. What more have you discovered?"

"To what do you refer?"

"I had a patient--I speak in the past tense, because I have given up business--concerning whom you entertained some curiosity. You know who that patient was. His name? Quick!" He touched Sophy's hand with the point of his knife, and drew blood. She never winced.

To save the poor girl, I answered, "Gerald Paget."

"Good. These compelling measures are admirable. But do not think you are telling me news. I can find my way through a maze as well as most people. It is in my power to give you some interesting information. For instance as to where this Gerald Paget is at the present moment."

"You have not disposed of him, then," I ventured to say.

"Oh, no. Another kind of death is in store for him. He is in prison for the murder of a gentleman unknown to the law, but known to us as Leonard Paget, to many others as M. Felix."

I repressed the indignant words that rose to my lips. Dr. Peterssen smiled and continued: "It is a remarkable complication. A man is found dead in Deering Woods, shot through the heart. This man is Leonard Paget, alias M. Felix. There is found upon his person nothing that can lead to his identity. The murder is perpetrated at a distance from London, and no one suspects there can be any connection between the murdered man and the M. Felix who so mysteriously disappeared from the purlieus of Soho. The last whose suspicions are likely to be roused are Emilia Paget--I am courteous enough, you see, to call her by her right name--and her friends. Wrapped up in their own concerns, a murder so remote has no interest for them. And murders are common. They occur all over the country. The housekeeper who attended upon M. Felix would be able to identify him, but what should bring her into this part of the world? So far, you must acknowledge, I have managed fairly well, and if it had not been for your meddling I should be safe. Curse you! But I am even with you now."

"I do not expect you to answer me," I said, "but how is it that the unfortunate gentleman whom you and your confederate have so sorely oppressed has to answer for a crime which you perpetrated?"

"Why should I not answer you? What passes in this grave will never be known, and I can afford to be magnanimous. The fool you pity was found near the body, in possession of the pistol with which the deed was done. Give me credit for that little man?uvre."

"Does he not declare his innocence?"

"He declares nothing. The small spark of reason which was left to him is extinguished, and he utters no word. His silence, his vacant looks, are proofs of guilt. They will make short work with him. He will be committed for trial; the assizes are near, and he will be tried and condemned. No living persons but ourselves can establish his innocence. If you were free you could accomplish it, but you never will be free. Fret your heart out. It will be a pleasure to me to witness your sufferings."

"Retribution will fall upon you," I said. "Your presence here convinces me that you are yourself in danger."

"I should be if I walked abroad, but I have disappeared. In this charming retreat I propose to hide till Gerald Paget is done for. Then, the interest of the affair at an end, I can provide for my own safety. Meanwhile, I can manage, at odd times, to purchase food enough to keep things going. Already I have in stock a few tins of preserved provisions, a supply of biscuits, some bread, spirits to warm me, tobacco to cheer me--to be smoked only at nights. Trust me for neglecting no precautions. It is not a life a gentleman would choose, but I am driven to it--by you." He filled his pipe and lit it.

"Is it night now?" I said.

"It is night now. I am fond of society; that is the reason I spare you for the present. When you have served my turn I will rid myself of you."

"Have you no pity?"

"None."

"If we refuse the food you offer us, if we prefer to die, at once, we can deprive you of the pleasure of torturing us."

"You can suit yourself. My experience is that life is sweet; hope lives eternal, you know. You can amuse yourself with the hope that you have still a chance. Do so; it is immaterial to me. I know what the end will be. Be silent now; you have talked enough."

He examined our fastenings to see that they were secure, and then he gagged us. Before he did so, however, I said to Sophy:

"Can you forgive me, my dear, for bringing this upon you?"

"There ain't nothink to forgive," she replied. "If I've got to die I'll die game."

Dr. Peterssen laughed sardonically, and did not give me time to say another word. The spirit of the child amazed me; she was of the stuff of which heroes are made. "If by a fortunate chance," I thought, "we escape the deadly danger which holds us fast she shall be richly rewarded." I saw no hope of escape, but I would cling to life to the last. Dr. Peterssen was right in his conjecture; I would not hasten the doom with which we were threatened, and which seemed inevitable. I slept fitfully, and in my intervals of wakefulness I judged from Sophy's regular breathing that she slept more peacefully than I. I was thankful for that. Where our gaoler took his rest I do not know. He did not disturb us for many hours. My eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and when I fully awoke I could dimly see Sophy's face. She could see me too, for when I smiled at her she smiled at me in return. Clearly it was Dr. Peterssen's intention to keep us alive for some time at least. He gave us bread and biscuits to eat and water to drink. Days passed in this miserable way and if I do not dwell upon them it is because I have little that is new to relate. Occasionally Dr. Peterssen allowed us to talk, and bandied words with us for his own malicious gratification. I asked him once whether we could purchase our release.

"You would give a large sum for it," he said.

"All that I possess in the world," I answered.

"If it could be done with safety to myself," he said, "I would entertain the offer; but you know as well as I do that it could not be so done."

"Why not?" I asked.

"You would betray me."

"I will swear a solemn oath that your name shall never pass my lips."

"An oath that you would break at the first convenient opportunity. You are a man with a conscience, and you would hasten to prove the innocence of Gerald Paget. How would you accomplish that without mention of my name? Come, now--air your sophistry, and see if you can persuade me to act like an idiot. As for money, I am well supplied. When I am rid of you and this stubborn little witch I mean to enjoy myself in another country."

He pulled out a bundle of bank-notes, and flourished them before my eyes. I thought of Bob's words that M. Felix kept always a large sum of money on his person, and I knew that the notes had once been his. Our gaoler took pride in such like acts of ostentatious candor, to show how completely he had us in his power and how little he had to fear from us. I cannot say at what period of our imprisonment I fell into a stupor which would have lasted till the hour of my death had Dr. Peterssen's fell intentions succeeded. It seemed to last for an eternity of days and nights, and in the few intervals of consciousness which came to me I prayed that I might not grow mad. Sometimes I heard Dr. Peterssen's voice as he forced water and sopped biscuit down my throat. I had no desire to refuse the food, but my strength was gone, and it was with difficulty that I could swallow. I could have borne my fate better had it not been that Sophy was never absent from my mind. Sleeping or waking I thought of her, and my misery was increased tenfold. I remember an occasion when I whispered to Dr. Peterssen:

"Is she still alive?"

"She is still alive," he said with a brutal laugh. "She has the pluck and strength of a dozen men."

Those were the last words he addressed to me, in my remembrance, nor do I remember speaking to him again. Delirious fancies held possession of me, and although I must have had periods of utter insensibility I do not recall them. I could not now distinguish the real from the unreal. I heard voices that did not speak; I saw pictures that had no existence; I passed through experiences as intangible as the gloom which encompassed us. All the people I knew, but chiefly those with whom I had been lately associated, played their parts in my wild fancies. The scene on the Thames Embankment with Emilia, my midnight visit to her daughter Constance, my adventures with Sophy, the episodes in the police court and M. Felix's chambers, my journeys to and fro in search of clews to the mystery, the introduction of Bob Tucker into the affair, all these and every other incident associated with my championship of a wronged and injured lady, took new and monstrous forms in my disordered imagination. I grew weaker and weaker. Surely the end must soon come.

It came. There were loud shouts and cries, and voices raised in menace, terror, and defiance. These sounds conjured up a host of confused forms struggling around me. A hand touched my face, an arm was passed round my neck; my head lay upon a man's shoulder.

"Agnold!"

My mouth, my limbs, were free, but I could not speak, I could not move.

"Agnold! Don't you hear me? It's Bob--Bob Tucker! I've found you at last--you're saved! Speak one word to me; move your head, to show you understand me."

I smiled feebly; I had had so many of these dreams; I did not open my eyes.

"Great God! Have I come too late? Oh, you black-hearted villain, your life shall pay for it!"

Gentle hands raised my head. My eyes, my face, were bathed with cold water; a few drops of weak spirits were poured into my mouth, which I swallowed with difficulty. Surely there was here no delusion!

"That's right, Agnold; that's right old friend. We'll soon pull you round. You are too weak to speak--I see that. But don't you want to hear about Sophy?"

Sophy? I strove to struggle to my feet, and fell back into the friendly arms ready to receive me. I opened my eyes; they fell upon Bob, who smiled and nodded at me. If this was delusion then, indeed, I was mad.

"For God's sake don't deceive me, Bob!" He must have followed my words in the movement of my lips, for sound scarcely issued from them. "This is real. You are my friend, Bob Tucker?"

"I am your friend, Bob Tucker, who ought to be whipped at the cart's tail for not having found you before. But I am in time, and I thank God for it!"

"You spoke of Sophy?" I did not dare to ask the question which was in my mind.

"I did. Your voice is getting stronger already. She's all right. Don't you fret about her."

"I want to know the solemn truth, Bob. She lives?"

"She lives. It is the solemn and happy truth, dear friend. She is near you at the present moment."

"Bring her close to me. Let me touch her hand."

It was placed in mine and guided to my lips. I kissed it, and a weak voice stole upon my ears:

"I am as well as well can be, Mr. Agnold! I'll dance yer a hornpipe if yer like!"

"My brave girl--my dear, brave Sophy! O God, I thank Thee!"

Then everything faded from my sight and I heard nothing more.