Chick Carter, hastening to follow Nick’s instructions, found nothing in the side hall nor out-of-doors that shed any light on the mystery. Several guests were departing in a limousine from under the porte-cochère, but Chick knew two of them personally and that none was worthy of the slightest suspicion. Returning through the hall, he found Patsy Garvan and quickly told him what had occurred, while both hastened out of the rear door of the house. As they were descending the steps, one of the kitchen servants, who was on her way in, approached them and said somewhat excitedly, addressing Chick: “Sure, sir, there’s something wrong around here. Would you mind telling Mr. Langham, sir?” “Something wrong?” questioned Chick, sharply regarding her. “Where? What do you mean?” “Round here, sir,” she replied, leading the way. “I was after taking out some refuse for the barrels, sir, and I heard moaninglike, as if some one was hurted.” “Heard it where?” “Here, sir, under the cellar door. I was after--there ’tis again, sir!” The corpulent Irishwoman shrank back affrighted. A hollow, half-choked moan had issued from under a slanting bulkhead door abutting the foundation wall on that side of the house. It was the opposite side from that on which was located the driveway making around from the front of the vast stone mansion and leading out to the stable and garage. Aside from the bulkhead door leading down to the basement there was only another door opening upon an entry and stairway for the use of the servants. The adjoining grounds in that locality were deserted, and lighted only by the stars glittering in the purple sky. A path led across a strip of lawn to several outbuildings. Beyond this were the trees of the park and woodland covering the vast estate. Through the gloom beneath them some fifty yards away could be faintly seen a gray gravel driveway making off to the east. Patsy caught sight of something white on the ground, just as the hollow moan interrupted the woman, and he stopped to pick it up. It was a partly burned cigarette, yet from which only a few puffs had been taken. Instinctively Patsy slipped it into his pocket, just as Chick exclaimed: “By Jove, the woman is right. Lend me a hand, Patsy. This door is not locked. Here’s a man on the stone steps.” His words evoked another moan from the prostrate man. “Wait a bit!” said Patsy. “Here is my searchlight.” Chick had opened both sections of the slanting door, and Patsy now sent a beam of light down the several stone steps. In the area below, against an inner door of the cellar, lay a man in evening dress, bound hand and foot with stout cords and brutally gagged. “Gee whiz!” cried Patsy. “Something wrong, Chick, is right.” “Help me lift him out.” “Lord save him!” said the woman, crossing herself. “Is he dead, sir?” “Far from it,” said Chick. “Dead men don’t moan. He’ll be all right when he can breathe freely. Now, sir, speak for yourself. How came you in this mess?”