Once she stopped, her heart thumping painfully at the sound of footsteps. They passed over her head, and then came a curious humming sound that grew in intensity, passed and faded. A motor-car! She was under the road! Of course, old Griff Tower stood upon the hillside. She was now near the road level, and possibly eight or nine feet above her the stars were shining. She looked wistfully at the ragged surface of the roof, and, steeling herself against the terrors that rose within her, she went on. She had need of nerve, need of courage beyond the ordinary. The cave passage turned abruptly; the little grotto openings in the wall occurred again. Suddenly she stopped dead. The light of the lantern showed into one of the grottos. Two men lay side by side—— She stifled the scream that rose to her lips, pressing her hands tight upon her mouth, her eyes shut tightly to hide the sight. They were dead—headless! Lying in a shallow pool, the petrifying water came dripping down upon them, as it would drip down for everlasting until these pitiful things were stone. For a long time she dared not move, dared not open her eyes, but at last her will conquered, and she looked with outward calm upon a sight that froze her very marrow. The next grotto was similarly tenanted, only this time there was one man. And then, when she was on the point of sinking under the shock, a tiny point of light appeared in the gloom ahead. It moved and swayed, and there came to her the sound of a fearful laugh. She acted instantly. Pulling open the door of the lantern, she stooped and blew it out, and stood, leaning against the wall of the cave, oblivious to the grisly relics that surrounded her, conscious only of the danger which lay ahead. Then a brighter light blazed up and another, till the distant spaces wherein they burnt were as bright as day. As she stood, wondering, there came to her a squeal of mortal agony and a whining voice that cried: “Help! Oh, God, help! Brixan, I am not fit to die!” It was the voice of Sir Gregory Penne. CHAPTER XXXIX MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE IT was that same voice that had brought Michael Brixan racing across the garden to the postern gate. A car stood outside, its lights dimmed. Standing by its bonnet was a frightened little brown man who had brought the machine to the place. “Where is your master?” asked Michael quickly. The man pointed. “He went that way,” he quavered. “There was a devil in the big machine—it would not move when he stamped on the little pedal.” Michael guessed what had happened. At the last moment, by one of those queer mischances which haunt the just and the unjust, the engine had failed him and he had fled on foot. “Which way did he go?” Again the man pointed. “He ran,” he said simply. Michael turned to the detective who was with him.