I had just this morning secured the key that
would fit the first door. I had taken the impression of the lock and
had it made without definite purpose, but now I was ready to act.
With a sinking heart but a clear head I put the key cautiously to the
lock and gently turned it. The key fitted perfectly, and the bolt flew
back as it made the circle. I opened the door into the middle room. The
second door, as I expected, was closed. Would the same key fit the
second lock, or must I wait to have another made? I advanced to the
second door and was about to try the key when a sound from behind it
turned my blood to water.
Beyond that door, from the room I had supposed to be empty, I heard a
groan.
I stood as if petrified, and, in the broad daylight that streamed in at
the window, with the noise and rush of Clay Street ringing in my ears,
I felt my hair rise as though I had come on a ghost. I listened a
minute or more, but heard nothing.
"Nonsense!" I thought to myself; "it was a trick of the imagination."
I raised my hand once more to the lock, when the sound broke again,
louder, unmistakable. It was the voice of one in distress of body or
mind.
What was it? Could it be some prisoner of Doddridge Knapp's, brought
hither by the desperate band that owned him as employer? Was it a man
whom I might succor? Or was it Doddridge Knapp himself, overwhelmed by
recollection and remorse, doing penance in solitude for the villainy he
had done and dared not confess? I listened with all my ears.
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