So far as Sandy Graham was concerned, his unconsciousness might have lasted an hour or a day. As a matter of fact, it was scarcely a minute after the disappearance of Fischer and his confederates when he was conscious of a rush of cold air in the place, and beheld the vision of a tiny flash of light at the lower end of the gloomy building. Immediately afterwards he heard the soft closing of a door and beheld a tall, shadowy figure slowly approaching. He lay quite still and looked at it, and his heart began to beat with hope. One of the lights had been left burning, and there was something in the bearing and attitude of the man who finally came to a standstill by his side, which was entirely reassuring. "Lutchester!" he faltered. "My God, how did you get here?" "Offices of a young lady," Lutchester observed, producing a knife from his pocket. "Allow me!" He cut the cords which still secured Graham's limbs. Then he looked around him. "How did they bring you here?" he whispered. "I suppose there is a passage from the restaurant?" "Up through a trapdoor there," Graham explained, pointing. Lutchester stood over it and listened intently. Then he turned around, lifted the glass of brandy from the table, smelt it approvingly, and tasted it. "Excellent!" he pronounced. "The 1840. Allow me!" He refilled the glass and handed it to Sandy, who gulped down the contents. The effect was almost instantaneous. In less than a minute he had staggered to his feet. "Feel strong enough to walk about fifty yards?" Lutchester inquired. "I'd walk to hell to get out of this place!" was the prompt reply. Lutchester took his arm, and they passed down the dusty aisle between the worm-eaten and decaying benches and through the outside door, which Lutchester closed and locked behind them. The rush of cold air was like new life to Graham. "I can walk all right now," he muttered. "My God, we'll give these fellows hell for this!" They made their very difficult way across a plot of ground from which a row of dilapidated cottages had been razed to the ground. The fog still hung around them and seemed to bring with it a curious silence, although the dying traffic from one of the main thoroughfares reached them in muffled notes. Lutchester climbed to the top of a pile of rubbish and then, turning around, held out his hand. "Up here," he directed. Graham struggled up until he stood by his companion's side. The latter stood quite still, listening for a moment. Then he climbed a little higher and swung around, holding out his hand once more. "I'm on top of the wall," he said. "Come on."