Then he softly called up the stair, "Cap'n Buffum!"
With tense ears he listened. A slight noise, the mere ghost of a scraping sound, attracted his notice. Again he called. This time the same scraping, scratching sound followed, a shade more distinct.
Casting aside all thought of danger to himself, Turner thrust his flash-light into his pocket and, revolver advanced, began to grope his way up the pitch-black stair, stealthily as an Indian, fully aware that he might receive a bullet at any moment. Up, up he crept until his left hand felt the floor of the upper room. Then he listened for a brief moment. Again, the scratching sound, louder and more insistent. His keen ear had located its direction to the inch. He bounded up the last steps, and snatching out his flash-light, held it at arm's length shooting its ray straight at the noise, his pistol ready for instant action. There, revealed by the ray, was a form bound hand and foot, roped to the great chair, and with eyes bandaged and a gag in the mouth. It was Cap'n Buffum.
By a desperate effort, the captive had managed
