He felt his way from the car, and then the hand of the driver gripped his other arm. He felt the crunch of gravel under his feet, then the stone step of a doorway. The tread of all three then fell upon bare planking, and Nick could sense that they had entered a building and were in a corridor of considerable size, which he determined from the sound of their footsteps on the floor. Nick had taken only a few steps, however, when he felt the two men thrust him through another doorway. Their hands left his arms. He heard the crash of a closed door behind him--and then found himself alone and in sudden silence. “What’s the meaning of this?” he asked himself, recalling what Garland had told him of his own experiences. “This isn’t quite in line with what he stated. Have these rascals----” Nick held his breath for an instant. The floor on which he stood was descending. “An elevator!” flashed through his mind. “Garland mentioned an elevator, and that he was taken down to the room in which he met Margate. This must be the same place.” The descending floor stopped in a few seconds, so gently that Nick rightly inferred that electricity was the motive power. He reached out in each direction and could touch only--four bare walls. “By Jove, I’ll find out what kind of a box I’m in,” he said to himself abruptly. “I’ll not wait for these rats to show me.” Nick removed the black bag and still found himself in inky darkness. He could discover in no direction the faintest ray of light. He waited a few seconds, thinking he might be released from these stuffy quarters, but not a sound broke the tomblike silence. Deciding not to use his searchlight, lest it might betray him if he was being covertly watched, Nick fished out a match from his pocket and lit it. The flame revealed four bare walls of wood, a ceiling and floor of like planking, the whole forming a boxlike structure about five feet square. As well as he then could judge from the brief flickering light from the match, there was no way to open it from the inside. “Box is right, by Jove,” he said to himself, with increasing suspicions. “I may be in more of a box than I bargained for right off the reel. Can it be that these rascals already suspect----” A quick, metallic snap cut short Nick’s train of thought. A panel in one of the walls flew open, slipping quickly to one side. It revealed a window about a foot square and nearly six feet from the floor. Through it came a flood of electric light from a corridor, only a small part of which could be seen by the detective. Nick’s attention was instantly claimed, moreover, by something more portentous--the head and face of a man gazing through the bright opening. They were the head and face of--Andy Margate. CHAPTER VIII. CAUGHT IN A BOX. Nick Carter gazed for a moment without speaking. The face of the knave peering in at him wore an expression the detective did not fancy.