As they came near the mouth of the _souffleur_, the great fountain shot up into the night air and broke in spray in the moonlight. Sir Clinton hurried forward and bent down to listen to the orifice. “He's there, all right, and still alive,” he reported. “A trifle unnerved, to judge by his appeals. I suppose we'll have to yank him out now.” Armadale also had been listening to the cries from below. “If we get him out in that state,” he said, with satisfaction, “there won't be much that he'll keep back when we start questioning him. He's all to pieces.” Before they could do any more, the _souffleur_ spouted again. Wendover, whose imagination was keener than that of the inspector, was suddenly appalled by the picture conjured up by that wild fountain jetting from the ground. Down below their feet he could see with his mind's eye the miserable wretch clinging for life to some inequality in the tunnel, while the continual blasts of the _souffleur_ tore and battered at him, and the rush of water made him fight for his breath. A rat in a trap would be happy compared with that. “Oh, let's get him out!” he exclaimed. “It must be devilish down there in the dark, waiting for the next spout.” “If you're set on seeing him hanged, squire, we'll do our best,” Sir Clinton conceded, with no sympathy in his tone. But, even by doing their best, they had great difficulty in rescuing their quarry from the grip of the death-trap. When at last they got him to the surface, he was more dead than alive; and three ribs had been cracked by the last torrent which had flung him against the side of the conduit. As they lifted him into safety, Sapcote hurried up from the hotel; and, after a glance at the torn and haggard face, he recognised the prisoner. “That's Aird, sir. Used to be valet at Foxhills once.” “Well, you can have Mr. Aird, inspector,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If you give him some brandy, he'll probably wake up enough to part with any information you want. Don't let your sympathy overcome you. We must get enough out of him to hang him if we can; and it depends on putting him through it while his nerve's gone.” He moved away without another glance at the broken figure on the ground, and, followed by Wendover, turned his steps towards the hotel. “I suppose he calculated on being able to climb to the top before the jet began to play,” he continued. “Well, he seems to have paid for his mistake,” he concluded grimly. At the hotel door, Wendover expected that they would go straight to the Fleetwood suite; but, rather to his surprise, Sir Clinton summoned one of the constables and gave him some instructions in a low voice. Then, accompanied by Wendover, he ascended the stairs. “I want to see Cargill for a moment,” he explained, as they passed the first floor. “I've something to say to him.” Rather puzzled, Wendover followed him to the Australian's room.