"It's definite, all right," Mark said; "but at least it's something decided, something to work on, anyway."
"By the time you've worked it out," Alan grumbled, "our friends will be halfway to the ends of the earth with the box. Unless they murder us first, which is likely."
"More likely they'll merely leave us to starve. Simpler for them and more unpleasant for us."
"We might feel around and see what sort of a hole this is," Alan suggested. "There might be a way out."
"And there might not—which is more probable. No, wait till they're happily asleep over their opium before you go ramping around in here."
They stooped and touched the floor, and, finding that it was cold and rather slimy, they decided to remain standing. They stood quietly. There was a sound of water dripping somewhere; in the corner something rustled and clicked. Alan started.
"What's that?" he whispered.
"I've no idea," Mark said. "I've given up wondering about things."
