“If you don’t stop your noise, mister, I’ll put a gag in your mouth!” cried Dick. “Just stand still, will you, and I’ll soon see where you are hurt. Charley, pick up his hat. Clara, hold the lantern. We will straighten this thing out right now.” It was Mudd’s own lantern, which he dropped when he fell. Clara had picked it up and lighted it again and Dick now made a careful examination of the man, but could find no wound. “You are not hurt at all,” declared Dick. “One shot went through his hat,” said Charley. “It’s a pity it didn’t go through his head,” added Dick. “Now, then, Mr. Mudd, seeing that you know the way out of this place I’ll thank you to show it to us, and be quick about it, do you understand?” Mudd began to snuffle. “I’ll do it,” he drawled. “I do it under protest, because I have to do it. I’m a man of very sensitive feelings and I don’t like to be talked rough to like that. I’m like the devil. I’m not as black as I’m painted. I’ve acted in your interest, Dick Darrell, right along.” “So you say,” replied Dick. “I suppose, of course, you were acting for my interest when you tried to stick a knife into my back in the streets of Washington. Oh, you’re a bird, you are! Travel on and show us the way out of here and hold your tongue or I’ll make you--that’s all!” Mudd seemed thoroughly cowed. With his hands tied behind him he shuffled on through the cavern. Dick noticed that he kept in a direct line with the lake and seemed to know just where he was going, which, indeed, proved to be the case, for in a few moments he paused beside what seemed to be a flight of stone steps. “There’s the way out,” he growled. “Why, these are regular stairs!” exclaimed Dick. “It’s right,” said Clara. “I was brought down this way.” “Of course it’s right,” growled Mudd. “If I may be allowed to speak now, I would like to say that these steps constitute a most important archæological discovery and one which should be communicated to the Smithsonian Institute. Yours truly, Martin Mudd, is the discoverer, so please mention his name in your report. You might call them the Mudd stairs, only that would be rather a misnomer, seeing that they are made of stone.” “Upon my word, you are the windiest beggar I ever came across,” said Dick. “Who built these stairs, anyway?” “There you go hurting my feelings again, and without the slightest reason,” retorted Mudd. “To the best of my knowledge and belief they were built by some prehistoric tribe of Indians like the cliff dwellers of the Colorado canyon. Don’t forget to mention my name when you make your report.” “Oh, I’ll mention your name in my report fast enough--don’t you fret,” replied Dick. “Lead on, Clara. If these steps will take us out of this hole we don’t want to lose any time.” “There’s a big stone to lift at the top of the flight,” said Mudd. “If you will untie my hands I’ll show you how to work it. You needn’t be afraid that I’ll run away.”