Surely Reeves’ torch was giving more light than usual? It seemed to have suddenly doubled its brightness. And then, just as he realized that another torch had been turned on from behind them, a strange voice came out of the darkness: “Now then, you there, I’ve got you covered. You this side, drop that torch. . . . That’s right: now, you in front, put that revolver down. . . . Now turn and go back the way you came.” It was humiliating, but there was nothing to be done. They had been taken in the rear by somebody coming up the other arm of the passage; they could see nothing of him, looking straight into the light of his torch. He stood at the junction of the two branches to let them pass, still invisible: as they went back on their tracks, Gordon had a wild idea of doubling into the priests’ room, but he saw it would be hopeless. He would be unarmed, caught in a trap, with a man who was probably already a murderer covering him with a revolver. They went on, an ignominious procession, right up to the opening in Reeves’ room, which they had left ajar behind them. “Step right out,” said the voice, “and don’t stir till I tell you.” Obediently they crept out into Reeves’ room, expecting the stranger to shut the door behind them and fasten it in some way still unknown to them. It was a surprise to both of them when the secret entrance was once more blocked with the shadow of a human form, and they were followed into the daylight by a quite unmistakable policeman. Chapter XIV A Chase, ending with a Surprise “Now then,” said the policeman, falling back on a formula in face of an unexpected situation. “What’s all this about?” There can be no doubt that, on most occasions, the sense of humour is a handicap in life. It implies introspection, and he who introspects is commonly lost. But laughter is, in great part, the child of innocence, and it is doubtful if anything could have exculpated the two amateur detectives from the charge of being criminals so speedily as the complete break-down of Gordon’s gravity when the question was asked. “What are you doing in these rooms?” asked the policeman, less suspicious but by no means more friendly. “Well, you see,” said Reeves, “they’re my rooms.” “I ought to warn you,” the policeman pointed out, “that this may involve you in a serious charge. We have reason to think that a murderer has been hiding in that passage there. Say nothing if you don’t want it to be used as evidence.” And he took out the inevitable note-book which is the policeman’s substitute for a thunderbolt.