"Sewer gas," he ejaculated, as he slammed the cover down. Then he
added to the policeman, "Where do you suppose it comes from?"
"Why," replied the officer, "the St. James Drain--an old sewer--is
somewhere about these parts."
Kennedy puckered his face as he gazed at our prisoner. He reached
down quickly and lifted something off the man's coat.
"Golden hair," he muttered. "Elaine's!"
A moment later he seized the man and shook him roughly.
"Where is she--tell me?" he demanded.
The man snarled some kind of reply, refusing to say a word about
her.
"Tell me," repeated Kennedy.
"Humph!" snorted the prisoner, more close-mouthed than ever.
Kennedy was furious. As he sent the man reeling away from him, he
seized the oxygen helmet and began putting it on. There was only
one thing to do--to follow the clue of the golden strands of hair.
Down into the pest hole he went, his head protected by the oxygen
helmet. As he cautiously took one step after another down a series
of iron rungs inside the hole, he found that the water was up to
his chest. At the bottom of the perpendicular pit was a narrow low
passage way, leading off. It was just about big enough to get
through, but he managed to grope along it. He came at last to the
main drain, an old stone-walled sewer, as murky a place as could
well be imagined, filled with the foulest sewer gas.
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