Dorothy walked slowly back to Will-o’-the-Wisp and climbed into the cockpit. From the pilot’s seat she had an unobstructed view of the field and the two other airplanes. Overhead, fluffy wind clouds began to appear from out of the northwest. Near the stone wall, three small rabbits sported in the sunshine; and presently a groundhog waddled across the field.

She glanced at her watch. The hands marked five past five. Bill had been gone twenty minutes.

“And he told me not to get nervous,” she thought indignantly. “This waiting around is enough to set anybody off—I’ll give him just ten minutes more!”

Dorothy counted those ten minutes quite the longest she had ever experienced. Fifteen minutes past five and still no Bill. He had told her to wait half an hour and then to fly home for help! But she was not the sort of girl who permits herself to be quietly wiped off the picture by an order from a boy friend! She just wasn’t made that way. Bill might be worried about the safety of the planes; it was his safety that worried her.

Determinedly she transferred the small revolver from its holster to a pocket of the jodhpurs she was wearing. Should she pack a flash light, too? No need of that, she decided. Figuring on daylight saving time, it wouldn’t be dark until after eight o’clock. Without more ado, she got out of the plane and crossed the field toward the wood.

After she had climbed the wall at the spot where she had seen Bill disappear on the trail of the bearded aviator, she came upon a path. Narrow it was, and overgrown, yet certainly a path, leading through the trees at a diagonal from the stone fence. Without hesitation, Dorothy followed it.

She was soon certain that her idea of the wood from the air was correct, and that it covered no great acreage. Hurrying along the winding footpath, she began to catch glimpses of blue sky between the tree trunks, and less than three hundred yards from the wall she came into the open.

The trees ended at the edge of a broad gully, apparently the bed of a shallow stream in the spring or after a shower; but now, except for a puddle or two, it was dry. On the farther side, cows were grazing in a meadow.

“Nice pastoral landscape,” she said aloud. “Doesn’t look like much of a spot for mischief—”

In spite of her bravado, Dorothy felt a lump in her throat. If Bill were missing, too, and she could not find him....

The pasture sloped gently upward over a hill, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. And on the horizon above the hilltop, the Castle reared its pointed turrets skyward. For a little while she watched the huge, grey pile of stone, whose narrow leaded windows reflecting the late afternoon sun, winked at her with many mocking eyes. What a dreary-looking place it was, she thought. Ugly and forbidding, it was entirely out of place in this New England countryside. The Castle seemed utterly deserted. It probably was. At least the path ended at the gully; there was no sign of it across the meadow.

Where was the bearded aviator—and above all, where was Bill?

“Bill distinctly said he would not snoop around the Castle,” she thought. “I wonder if he really came this far?”

So eager had she been to reach the edge of the wood that she had paid very little attention to the ground she was covering. As this new thought struck her, she turned and gazed back over the way she had come. There were her own footprints clearly defined in the damp earth—but there was no sign that either Bill or the smuggler had passed that way.

Back along the path she trudged, walking slowly this time.

“I’m a pretty poor woodsman,” she told herself. “They must have turned off somewhere.”

Her eyes searched the soft earth of the narrow trail and the thick bushes through which it wandered. But it was not until she had gone half way back to the stone wall that she discovered traces of footprints. And where the prints left the path, a ragged remnant of a handkerchief swung from a twig near the ground.

“There!” she pounced upon it joyfully. “How could I have been so stupid as to miss it—I might have known!”

The initials, “W. B.” embroidered in one corner of the dirty fragment of linen banished any doubt she may have had as to its ownership. Leaving it tied to the bush, she struck into the wood.

Now that she was intent upon her stalking, there was no mistaking the trail left by the other two. A broken twig, heel marks on the soft mold, a trampled patch of moss; all these signs bespoke a hasty passage through the brush.

She had not gone far, when suddenly in a clearing she came upon the end of the trail. The earth here was bare of undergrowth and sloped sharply down into a marshy ravine. In the center of the little clearing a pile of brush was heaped with dead grass and rubbish,—tin cans, old shoes, automobile fenders, rusty bed-springs, boxes and weathered newspapers.

For a moment Dorothy stared at the rubbish dump. Then she noticed footprints circling the heap and followed them down to the ravine. Here, as if to bulwark the miscellaneous junk and to keep it from sliding, was a buttress of boxes and barrels.

Dorothy got down on her knees and examined these carefully. At the very bottom, almost on a level with the tussocky surface of the marsh, a barrel lay on its side, its depth leading inward. A sudden inspiration made her pull a long stick from the pile and run it into the barrel. She gave a little gurgle of astonishment. The barrel had no bottom.

Still on her knees she peered inside. Just beyond the rim lay a scrap of paper. She picked it up and scrawled upon it were the words “This way”....

“Another message!” she whispered jubilantly.

She tried to move the barrel but found that it was securely nailed to the bulwark of packing-cases. The soft earth about its mouth was heavily marked with footprints.

“Well, there’s no doubt about it now—‘this way’—” she murmured and without further waste of time wormed her way into the barrel.

As she crawled through the other end, she found herself in a narrow tunnel. The daylight appearing through its ingenious entrance was strong enough to show her that the rubbish had been built over a frame of two-by-fours and chickenwire, which formed the roof and sides of the tunnel under the dump.

Dorothy got to her feet. A short distance ahead the tunnel led straight into the high ground over which she had come from the wood path. Here the sides were timbered with stout posts, and ceiled with cross beams to prevent the earthen roof from falling.

“Gee, if this isn’t like Alice in Wonderland! Why, I might meet the White Rabbit any minute now.” She giggled, then shivered as she remembered why she was there.

For a moment she considered returning to the plane for her flash light, but decided it would take too much precious time, and passed on cautiously, stopping now and then to listen. She could hear nothing but the squashy sound of her footsteps on the marshy floor of the tunnel.

After proceeding about fifteen feet, the dark passage turned slightly in its course. Just beyond the turn, as Dorothy was groping to find which way it led, her hands touched a wooden surface. This proved to be a heavy door, standing partly open. As she shoved it back with her shoulder, she tripped over a heavy object which lay across the sill. Dorothy reached down in the darkness and picked up a crowbar.

She advanced, dragging the crowbar after her. The floor of the passage at this point began to slope up hill. But after a few paces ahead, she found it went abruptly downward at a considerable angle, took a sharp turn to the right, then began to slope gently upward again.

By this time she had lost all sense of direction. She progressed slowly, feeling along the wall with her left hand, resting it on one timber until she had advanced half way to where she supposed the next would be. In this manner she crept on for nearly a quarter of a mile without meeting any obstruction. The air, though cold and lifeless, was breathable; but the darkness and the horrid feeling of being shut in began to get on her nerves. Once more she stopped to listen. Absolute stillness. Dorothy could hear nothing but the beating of her heart as she strained her eyes to pierce the black passage. She seemed completely shut off from everything on earth.

Feeling that inaction was even more unbearable than running head-on into danger, she recommenced her slow advance. Presently, she came to a place where the tunnel widened out. Here, even with outstretched arms, she could not reach both walls at once.

As she swung to follow the left hand wall, her right arm struck a free timber which seemed to have no connection with either side of the passage. From this she deduced that she was now in a sort of subterranean chamber, and that this free post was one of the supports of its roof. Continuing along the left wall, with her right arm outstretched, she soon reached another post. The heavy crowbar which she was endeavoring to carry at arm’s length, struck against the base of the upright and made a loud, cavernous sound.

“Bloomp!”

Dorothy was prepared for the next timber, some three feet farther on. She took the crowbar in her left hand and extended her right to grasp the post, with the intention to discover the size of the chamber.

Suddenly she recoiled in horror. She could feel a chill rush up and down her spine. For she had touched, not the splintered wood of the post, but, unmistakably, human flesh.

Dodging quickly to one side, she dropped the crowbar and drew her revolver. Holding it straight before her, ready to fire at the first sign of a hostile advance, she listened breathlessly.

To her amazement, there was no sound; not the slightest indication of movement in the awful darkness. She supposed the enemy must be maneuvering to take her from some unexpected quarter. But she could not understand how it could be managed in that inky blackness without giving her some audible sign.

Feeling that she must have something firmer than mere space behind her, Dorothy retreated, keeping her pistol leveled. With her left hand she groped behind her and when she felt the solid timber, she leaned back against it, waiting.

Seconds dragged like hours and still there was no sound. Gradually, Dorothy’s nerves were beginning to quiet down.

“Well, this is darned queer,” she thought, “maybe that person is making tracks out of here. I can’t just stand still and do nothing, anyway.”

She began to move forward very cautiously. When she had covered ten short paces, she stopped and listened again. Absolute stillness everywhere, stillness pervaded by the strange, dank smell of unsunned earth and the musty rot of roots and wood.

But this time Dorothy fancied she could hear a faint, very faint sound of breathing. At first she thought it was her own, reechoing from the walls of the dark cavern. Then she held her breath and listened once more. There was some one else in this subterranean chamber.

“Well, here goes,” she said with closed lips. “It’s now or never. I can’t stand this much longer!”

But she had only taken a single step when the same chill of horror and fright raced over her again. Her revolver muzzle had touched something apparently alive and yielding, the clothed body of someone who stood motionless as before.

“Hold it! hold it!” she cried, her teeth chattering. “Don’t move or I’ll plug you!”

With her gun firmly pressed against the body, she raised her other arm to ward off any blow that might be directed against her. As she did so, it became evident that the body still had not moved, that the breath was coming regularly and faintly, but there was no stir of limbs, no shift of muscle or of weight.

Such mysterious behavior filled Dorothy with terror. She bit her lips and dug the mouth of her Colt forward into the body.

“Stick ’em up—do you hear? Over your head!” she said viciously between her teeth.

The figure remained motionless and as silent as before. Dorothy felt her heart beats mount to a violent thunder. She felt she could stand the strain no longer.

Still holding her pistol against the flesh of this mysterious being, she lowered her arm from her forehead and reached slowly forward. She touched something. Her whole body was convulsed with horror, anguish and surprise.

Her trembling fingers had descended upon the smooth, cool softness of a leather helmet. They slipped, cold and damp, from the helmet to the face and over the warm cheek.

In that moment everything was changed. Now Dorothy understood why the figure was motionless and quiet. She touched a fold of cloth that bound the mouth and slipping her hand to the shoulder, she felt a twist of thin rope.

She slipped the pistol into her belt without hesitation. Bill always carried several packets of matches in his pockets. She found one and struck a light.

When the little puff of smoke and the obscuring haze of the first flash settled down to a fitful flame, Dorothy got a glimpse of her friend. He was gagged and bound to one of the upright supports. His eyes were closed and his head drooped to one side.

In less than a second Dorothy had flung away the match and was cutting the young fellow’s bonds with her knife, groping for them in the dark and supporting his released body against her own as she worked. At last she was able to lift him out of the loosened loop that had held his feet and stepping back, laid him on the earthen floor.

Then she knelt beside him, rubbing his wrists and cheeks with her grimy palms. For some minutes her ministrations seemed of no avail. But presently, under her fingers she felt his head move. At first she could only catch groans and sighs. Then, as consciousness began to assert itself, Bill raised his head a little and said faintly:

“Who’s that?”

“It’s me—Dorothy.”

She lifted his head into her lap. As she did so Bill gave a start and struggled feebly.

“Let me go!” he muttered. “Let me alone!”

“Just keep quiet, Bill,” she soothed. “You’ll be better soon.”

Bill lay back in her arms and was still.

“Who are you?” he asked again and this time in a firmer voice.

“It’s Dorothy, your pardner!”

“Dorothy? Thank Heaven for that.” He caught at her hand and squeezed it. “We’re in the tunnel, aren’t we?”

“Yes—where it widens out into a kind of room.”

“I remember now—that guy slugged me when I was making for the candle on the table over there.”

“Who slugged you? The bearded aviator?”

“That’s right. I was coming along, lighting matches to see by when he stepped from behind one of the uprights—and that’s all I remember. Knocked me out, I guess.”

“He certainly did! You’ve a bump on your head like an egg. The helmet probably saved your life. Feel pretty rotten, don’t you?”

“You said it! Dizzy as blazes—and my head’s as sore as a boil. But I guess I’ll be all right in a minute if I can just lie still. Do you mind?”

“Of course not, silly. Take your time. I suppose you followed the footprints to the barrel, like I did.”

“Yep. But how come you went after me?” he chuckled. “I thought the idea was to beat it home in the plane.”

“Oh, Bill, I just couldn’t!”

Bill sat up. “Well, I suppose I was crazy to ever think you would—but I honestly didn’t think I’d get into such close quarters with that fellow. As it is, I’m mighty glad you didn’t take my fool suggestion,” he admitted. “Where would I be now, if you hadn’t shown up? By the taste in my mouth and the feel of my wrists, that galoot must have tied me up and gagged me!”

“He did that. You were bound to an upright. Have you any idea where this tunnel comes out?”

“Ten dollars to counterfeit two-cent piece, your Castle is the answer to that question,” he said, and lit a match. “Oh, there’s the table, Dorothy. Do you mind lighting that candle? I’m too dizzy to stand up yet or—”

He stopped short and Dorothy saw his eyes widen in startled surprise.

“Look out!” he yelled and the match went out.

Dorothy felt a hand grip the back of her neck and immediately afterward its fellow clutched her throat. In a fierce frenzy of terror, she shot to her feet, gasping and choking and flinging her arms wildly backwards as she rose.