Progress was slow, for they did not know that a definite path existed between the jagged ends of broken iron and debris. Once or twice Leon stopped to stamp on the floor; it gave back a hollow sound. The search was long and painfully slow: a quarter of an hour passed before Leon’s lamp focussed the upturned flagstone and the yawning entrance of the vault. He was the first to descend, and, as he reached the floor, he saw, silhouetted in the light that flowed from the inner room, a man, as he thought, crouching in the doorway, and covered him. “Put up your hands!” he said. The figure made no response, and Manfred ran to the shape. The face was in the shadow, but he brought his own lamp down and recognized the set grin of the dead man. Gurther! So thus he had died, in a last effort to climb out for help. “The Snake,” said Manfred briefly. “There are no marks on his face, so far as I can see.” “Do you notice his wrist, George?” Then, looking past the figure, Gonsalez saw the girl lying on the bed, and recognized Joan before he saw her face. Half-way across the room he slipped on something. Instinctively he knew it was a snake and leapt around, his pistol balanced. “Merciful heaven! Look at this!” He stared from the one reptile to the other. “Dead!” he said. “That explains Gurther.” Quickly he unstrapped Joan’s wrists and lifted up her head, listening, his ear pressed to the faintly fluttering heart. The basin and the sponge told its own story. Where was Mirabelle? There was another room, and a row of big cupboards, but the girl was in no place that he searched. “She’s gone, of course,” said Manfred quietly. “Otherwise, the trap would not have been open. We’d better get this poor girl out of the way and search the grounds. Digby, go to——” He stopped. If Oberzohn were in the house, they must not take the risk of alarming him. But the girl’s needs were urgent. Manfred picked her up and carried her out into the open, and, with Leon guiding them, they came, after a trek which almost ended in a broken neck for Leon, to within a few yards of the house. “I presume,” said Gonsalez, “that the hole into which I nearly dived was dug for a purpose, and I shouldn’t be surprised to learn it was intended that the late Mr. Gurther should find a permanent home there. Shall I take her?” “No, no,” said Manfred, “go on into the lane. Poiccart should be there with the car by now.” “Poiccart knows more about growing onions than driving motor-cars.” The gibe was mechanical; the man’s heart and mind were on Mirabelle Leicester. They had to make a circuit of the stiff copper-wire fence which surrounded the house, and eventually reached Hangman’s Lane just as the head-lamps of the Spanz came into view. “I will take her to the hospital and get in touch with the police,” said Manfred. “I suppose there isn’t a near-by telephone?” “I shall probably telephone from the house,” said Leon gravely.