There was nothing in the room to help him. It was useless to try to liberate himself. And he lay supine once more, cursing the Fate that had led him into such a trap; and cursing more than all the officious, presumptuous meddler, the jail-bird and ruffian, who had thus entrapped _him_, Van Vernet. "If I escape," he assured himself, "and I _will_ escape, I'll hunt that man down! I'll put him behind the bars again if, to do it, I have to renounce the prospect of a double fortune! But I won't renounce it," thought this hopeful prisoner. "When I find them again, and I will find them, I'll first capture this convict son, and then use him to extort the truth from those old pirates--the truth concerning their connection with Alan Warburton, aristocrat. And when I have that truth, the high and mighty Warburton will learn what it costs him to send a black servant to dictate to Van Vernet!" Easily conceived, this pretty scheme for the future, but its execution depends upon the liberation of Van Vernet and, just now, that seems an improbable thing. Moments pass away. They seem like hours to the helpless prisoner; they have fitted themselves into one long hour before the silence is broken. Then he hears, for all his shut-up faculties seemed to have merged themselves into hearing, a slight, a very slight sound in the outer room. The door has opened, some one is entering. More muffled sounds, and Vernet knows that some one is creeping toward the inner room. Slowly, with the least possible noise, that door also opens. He hears low whispering, and then realizes that two persons approach him. Are they foes or friends? Oh, for the use of his eyes--for the power to speak! Presently hands touch him. Ah, they are about to liberate him; but why so silent? They are dexterous, swift-moving hands; but his fetters remain, while the swift hands work on. They are robbing him. First his watch; his pocket-book next; then shirt studs, sleeve buttons, even his handkerchief. And still no word is spoken. He writhes in impotent anger. His brain seems seized with a sudden madness. These swift, despoiling hands, the darkness, the horrible silence, appall him--fill him with a sort of supernatural terror. The hands have ceased their search, and he knows that the two robbers have risen. He feels the near presence of one; the footsteps of the other go from him, toward the street. A scraping sound; a soft rustle. They are gathering up the rags from the floor. The closet again: this time it is opened, entered. A moment's stillness; then a sharp sound, which he knows to be the striking of a match. Another long silent moment. _What_ are they doing? Ah! the footsteps retreat. They go toward the outer room; creeping, creeping stealthily. Now they have crossed the outer room. They go out, and the door is softly closed. What does this mystery mean? Have they returned to rob him, and then to leave him? Will they come back yet again?