This counter-command came from the side of the room. Out of the corners of his eyes Nick could see that a panel in the wall had slid noiselessly back. A square opening was revealed, framing a man’s head and shoulders. The man wore a brown derby hat and held a revolver, whose point was leveled at the detective’s breast. A triumphant smile began to show itself on Gillman’s face; but the smile vanished as a second head appeared in the opening and another voice echoed sharply through the room. “Put on the darbies, Nick! If this fellow tries to pull the trigger it will be all over with him.” It was Chick. He was behind the other man, and was pressing the muzzle of a revolver against the back of his head. A baffled oath broke from the man in the derby hat. Nick, realizing that there was no time to be lost, was about to adjust the handcuffs. Before he could do it, however, a rap fell on the door. Silence followed. The rap was repeated more emphatically. “Ask who’s there, Gillman,” whispered Nick, bringing the weapon out of his pocket and making a significant movement with it. “Who’s there?” inquired Gillman. “Ramsay.” Quick as lightning. Nick put away the handcuffs and developed a second revolver. Covering Gillman with the gun in his right hand, Nick turned partly around. “Tell him to come in,” he whispered again. As Gillman carried out the order, Nick pushed back the bolt with the muzzle of the weapon held in his right hand. Then two things happened, and happened simultaneously. The incandescent light was turned off, leaving the room in total darkness, and a rush of heavy feet followed the bursting in of the door. Nick discharged his revolvers, but the rush of his enemies was not stayed. He was assailed from all sides, and when he found the quarters too close for revolver work, he gripped the weapons by the barrel and clubbed them to right and left. But the odds were overwhelming. In the midst of his desperate struggle, a savage blow on the head sent him down. The shouts and curses of his assailants died away in his ears, he felt them piling on top of him, and then he remembered nothing more. CHAPTER IX. THE DEATH CHAMBER. Nick opened his eyes in darkness. Not a ray of light could be seen at any point in the surrounding gloom, and a silence as of the grave reigned all around. Under him was a hard stone floor, and from the dank, moldy smell of the place he thought he must be in a cellar--presumably the basement under Boucicault’s. His head was throbbing painfully, and he was lying on his bound arms and wrists. His ankles were also bound. “Well, here’s a go!” he exclaimed, aloud. The words echoed hollowly through the place, and had hardly left Nick’s lips before another voice came from a little distance. “Hello! Is that you, Nick?” “Chick! What are you doing here?” “Not a thing. Can’t.” “Trussed up?” “Wrist and ankle.” “The same gang that laid me out took care of you.”