CHAPTER IXTHE 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.”
