Page:Arthur Stringer--The House of Intrigue.djvu/252

236 room had no window. So I went back to the door again. It was very heavy, and securely locked. I kicked on its panels with all my force, but I might as well have kicked against a brick wall. Then for a minute or so I must have imagined I was a whirling dervish, for I stood there pounding on the upper panels with my manacled hands. It made a good deal of noise, and did a good deal of damage to the highly polished woodwork. But that was the only satisfaction I got out of the performance. And I was too tired to waste energy as a paint-remover, once my foolish little frenzy had worn itself out. So I backed slowly away from the door, pondering just what my next move would be. I stood there in studious silence, trying to goad that empty head of mine into grasping an idea or two.

That silence was suddenly broken by three low yet distinct taps on the door which I had so recently been pounding. I moved toward this door, wondering what this signal might mean. Then, as I still advanced, the lights suddenly went out and I stood in utter darkness, with my shackled hands touching the wall, gropingly, for possible guidance. And as I stood there the key in the door turned quietly, and the door itself was slowly swung back.

It was not swung entirely open. The light from