“Exactly. And that is why I won’t sign it. I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I agreed to any scheme that would protect you.” “How about your family? Are you doing your duty to them by being so obstinate?” There was silence for a while. Then Fenton Hardy answered slowly: “They would rather know that I died doing my duty than have me come back to them as a protector of smugglers and criminals.” “You have a very high sense of duty,” sneered Snackley. “But perhaps you’ll think better of it after a while. Are you thirsty?” There was no reply. “Are you hungry?” Still no answer. “You know you are. And you’ll be hungrier and thirstier before we are through with you. We’ll put food and water in your sight but you won’t be able to reach it. You’ll die of thirst and starvation—unless you sign that paper.” “I’ll never sign it.” “All right. Come on, men. We’ll leave him to himself and give him time to think about it.” Footsteps resounded as Snackley and the others began to leave the room, and finally they died away and a door banged. Fenton Hardy was left alone. Joe made a sudden move toward the door, but Frank restrained him. “Not just yet,” he cautioned. “They may have left some one to guard him.” So the boys waited, listening intently at the door. But there were no further sounds from within the room. At length, satisfied that his father had indeed been left alone, Frank fumbled for the latch of the door. Noiselessly, he managed to open it. He pressed in on the door until it was open about an inch, then he peeped through the aperture. He found himself on the threshold of a sort of cellar, a damp and mouldy chamber, of about the same size as the storage room in the heart of the cliff, with the difference that whereas the first room was a cave in the rock, this place had been dug out of the earth. It was floored with planks and a lone electric light cast a yellowish illumination over the scene. There was a crude table and a few chairs, while in one corner stood a small camp-bed. On this bed he spied his father. Fenton Hardy was bound hand and foot to the cot, so tightly trussed up that he was unable to move more than a few inches in any direction. He was lying flat on his back, staring up at the muddy ceiling of his prison. On a chair beside the cot was a large sheet of paper, presumably the document the smugglers were asking him to sign. The detective did not hear the door open. As Frank looked at him he was conscious of a change in the appearance of his father, a change that shocked him extremely. For Fenton Hardy was thin and pale, his cheeks were sunken and he looked like a man who was famished for want of food. Frank opened the door a little wider and tiptoed into the room. Joe followed quietly. They knew that there was danger of the smugglers returning at any moment. They knew that they must work swiftly and quietly if they were to effect the release of their father.