play on the floor, around the walls; he discovered nothing. He turned it on the center of the floor—where he had been almost afraid to train it.
“Who’n’ell’s there!” grated an exasperated voice at him, and a warm glow of thanksgiving came over Val. He was no more alone—and the man who was dripping blood was evidently alive.
“Hello, Eddie,” he chirped. “I’m not keeping you up, I hope.”
He trained the flashlight on the floor, where the figure of Eddie Hughes was staggering, a bit unsteadily, to its feet. With a quick movement he was at Eddie’s side, assisting him.
“No—I’ve had my beauty sleep, sir,” replied Eddie.
Val turned the light on his face. He was a ghastly figure, with his face streaked with blood from a deep, ugly gash over his right eye. Evidently he had fallen immediately over a large crack in the floor, and it was this freely flowing blood that had put out Val’s flickering candle. The blood was clotted now, though he must have lost rather more of it than a man can conveniently spare.
“Hurt much, Eddie?” inquired his employer.
“No, I’m all right now,” said Eddie. “Knocked me for a gool, for awhile, though. Dunno how long I’ve been lyin’ there, dead to the world. Never had a chance to take a wallop at ’im⸺”
“At whom?” inquired Val.
“That guy without no hands. I⸺”
“How do you get into this, anyway?” asked Val. “I thought you were at the pictures⸺”
“Oh, them pitchers! I sorta changed my mind. I came along to the little house an’ I seen how things was, so I guessed you had gone down here—so nat-
