“I have given up guessing, Sergeant,” I answered brusquely, “and am going to find out.  If he is down below in the cellar we will be at the bottom of all this mystery in about three minutes.  Come on with me.  No, the two of us are enough.  Miss Billie, you had better remain here.”

“But,” catching me by the sleeve, “he is armed; he has a revolver and a knife.”

“Don’t worry about that,” and I caught the restraining hand in my own.  “One of us will open the door, and the other have the fellow covered before he knows what to do.  Come on, Miles.”

It seemed dark below, descending as we did suddenly from out the glare of the upper hall, and we had to grope our way forward from the foot of the stairs.  I saw Billie follow us a few steps, and then stop, leaning over to witness all she could.  I was a step or so in advance of Miles, and had drawn my revolver.  The cellar was as quiet as a grave.  I felt my way along the wall toward where I remembered this special door to be, endeavoring to make no noise.  My eyes could discern outlines better by this time, and, as we approached, I became convinced the door we sought stood ajar.  I stopped, startled at the unexpected discovery, and began feeling about for the bar; it was not in the socket.  What could this mean?  Had Billie told us a false story, or had her prisoner, by some magical means, escaped?  She had said he was hacking at the wood with a knife; could he have cut a hole through sufficiently large to permit of his lifting the bar?  This seemed scarcely possible, yet no other theory suggested itself, and I stepped rather recklessly forward to investigate.  My foot struck against a body on the floor, and, but for Miles, I should have fallen.  A moment we stood there breathless, and then he struck a match.  A man lay at our feet, face downward, clad in Federal cavalry uniform, about him a shallow pool of blood.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE DEAD MAN

The match flared out, burning Miles’ fingers so he dropped it still glowing on the floor.  We could yet distinguish dimly the outlines of the man’s form at our feet, and I heard Billie come down the stairs behind us.  There was no other sound, except our breathing.

“Strike another, Sergeant,” I commanded, surprised by the sound of my own voice, “and we’ll see who the fellow is.”

He experienced difficulty making it light, but at last the tiny blaze illumined the spot where we stood.  I bent over, dreading the task, and turned the dead man’s face up to the flare.  He was a man of middle age, wearing a closely trimmed chin beard.  I failed to recognize the countenance, and glanced up questioningly at Miles just as he uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“It’s one of Mahoney’s fellows, sir,” he asserted sharply.  “Burke’s the name.”

“Then he couldn’t possibly be the same man Miss Hardy saw up stairs that first time.”