he started from the back and came toward the front.  About three-quarters of the way there, he paused.  It was very simple, after all.  The solid wall for a couple of feet suddenly ceased, and the design was continued with an expanse of stretched canvas, which yielded easily to his finger.  He leaned his ear against it; he could hear now distinctly the sound of voices—­he heard even the woman’s laughter.  For the height of about four feet the wall had been bodily removed.  He made a small hole in the canvas—­there was still darkness.  He enlarged the hole until he could thrust his hand through—­there was nothing but canvas the other side.  He knew now where he was.  There was only that single thickness of canvas between him and the room.  He had but to make the smallest hole in it and he would be able to see through.  Even now, with the removal of the barrier on his side, the voices were more distinct.  A complete section of the wall had evidently been taken out and replaced by a detachable framework of wood covered with stretched canvas.  He stood back for a moment and felt with his finger; he could almost trace the spot where the woodwork fitted upon hinges.  Then he went on his hands and knees again, and with his penknife in his hand he paused to listen.  He could hear the man Crease talking—­a slow, nasal drawl.  Then he heard Pritchard’s voice, followed by what seemed to be a groan.  There was a silence, then Elizabeth seemed to ask a question.  He heard her low laugh and some note in it sent a shiver through his body.  Pritchard was speaking fiercely now.  Then, in the middle of his sentence, there was silence once more, followed by another groan.  He could almost feel the people in that room holding their breaths.

Tavernake was rapidly forgetting all caution.  The point of his knife was through the canvas.  Slowly he worked it round until a small piece, the size of a half-crown, was partially cut through.  With infinite pains he got his head and shoulders into the small recess and for the first time looked into the room.  Pritchard was sitting almost in the middle of the apartment; his arms seemed to be bound to the chair and his legs were tied together.  A few yards away, Elizabeth, her fur coat laid aside, was lounging back in an easy-chair, her dress all glittering with sequins, a curious light in her eyes, a cruel smile parting her lips.  By her side—­sitting, in fact, on the arm of her chair —­was Crease, his long, worn face paler, even, than usual; his lips curled in a smile of cynical amusement.  Major Post was there, carefully dressed as though he had been attending some social gathering, standing upon the hearth-rug with his coat-tails under his arms.  The professor, in whose face seemed written the most abject terror, was talking.  Tavernake now could hear every word distinctly.

“My dear Elizabeth!  My dear Crease!  You are both too precipitate!  I tell you that I protest—­I protest most strongly.  Mr. Pritchard, I am sure, with a little persuasion, will listen to reason.  I will not be a party to any such proceeding as—­as this.  You understand, Crease?  We have gone quite far enough as it is.  I will not have it.”