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<h2 id="c18">CHAPTER XVIII. IN DURANCE VILE.</h2> Ida was led a little distance from the neighborhood in her next call, and to a part of the city that differed in appearance from that in which, up to this hour, she had spent her time. It was more sparsely settled, the houses further apart and the buildings larger. As she reached the address of the person she was next to call on, she was met by a rather rough-looking young man, who asked her who she was looking for. Ida did not like the looks of the fellow, and, as she answered, her hand stole to her pocket where her trusty revolver, which had served her well in the past, safely lay. Having given the name of the person she wanted, the young tough told her to enter the hall door, climb the stairs and knock at the first door she came to. She entered the hall as directed, but found it wholly dark. Stopping a moment to strike a match, so as to see her way, the first faint glimmering of the light showed her the forms of three men crouching at the foot of the stairs. Instantly the match was knocked from her hand, and, in the intense darkness that followed, she found herself seized both from before and behind. <div class="pb" id="Page_173">173</div> Though she struggled, she was powerless in the grasps of the scoundrels. Then something was pulled over her head which seemed like a bag. Naturally much frightened, nevertheless Ida did not lose her wits, and keenly noted every move of the rascals who had seized her, carefully watching for some sign of the brown-bearded man, whom she immediately suspected of being at the bottom of the attack on her. She was now lifted from her feet and carried farther into the hall. Then she was certain she was borne into the open air. Then again into a narrow passage, up some stairs and into a room, where she was placed on a chair. The men left her alone, but she could hear them close and bolt the door behind them. All was as silent as the grave. Outside, from the distance, she could hear dimly the roll of wheels and the noise of the trollies, but that was all. She tried to tear off the covering that had been put on her head, and found she had no difficulty in drawing it off. There was no light in the room save that which entered through the windows from the street. It was little, but sufficient to see that the room she was in was barely furnished. There was a table and two chairs. That was all. She went to a window and saw that it looked out on the street, but could see no one there. <div class="pb" id="Page_174">174</div> She examined her pockets and her dress. There had been no attempt to take anything from her. Her revolver still rested safely in her pocket. She felt more secure when she found this had been left to her. She also drew from her pocket what she had forgotten she had—a blank form for a telegram and the stump of a pencil. Her pocketbook was secure also. Hearing a noise without the window she went to it again to see that a young lad was crawling along the coping. Trying to throw up the sash, she found it was nailed fast. Winding her handkerchief about her hand, so that it would not be cut, she broke a pane of glass and thrust her head through it. The boy was startled and seemed as if he were going to crawl back. “Who are you?” asked Ida. “Did they lock youse up there?” asked the boy. “Yes; how did you know?” “I was on the stairs and seed ’em.” A thought occurred to Ida. She asked: “Will you do something for me?” “If I kin.” Ida took out her pocketbook, and, handing a bill to the lad, said: “Here’s a dollar. I want you to take a telegram for me. It will cost a quarter. The rest of the money shall be yours. Will you take the paper to the telegraph office?” “Sure. Where’s de paper?” <div class="pb" id="Page_175">175</div> “I’ll write it.” Ida hurried to the table and filled in the address of Chick, at Nick Carter’s, in New York. Then she wrote these words: “Am in trouble.” She had only gotten so far when she heard quick steps in the hall without, approaching her door. Without waiting further she rushed to the window and thrust the telegram she had written out of the window to the boy, who snatched it and crawled away in a hurry. Ida went back to the table, her hand on her revolver. The bolts were withdrawn and a man entered the room. At a glance Ida saw that he was disguised, and not skillfully at that. He crossed the room to where she was standing, the table between them, and stood looking at her intently a moment or two. Ida returned his gaze. Neither spoke for a while. Then the man said: “You are Nick Carter’s Ida. What is your business here?” “I have none,” said Ida. “I was brought here against my will.” “I mean in Philadelphia.” “That is my business.” “Answer me, or it will be worse for you. You are here on the Ethel Romney case.” “Suppose I am, what then?” asked Ida, boldly. “Well, you won’t do much locked up here, will you?” asked the man. <div class="pb" id="Page_176">176</div> “Oh, I don’t know,” replied Ida. “You can’t tell.” The man did not know what to make of that answer and did not reply for a moment or two. Then he said, roughly: “Nick Carter thinks that the one who did the girl came here.” Ida made no reply, but she was thinking hard. “He’s wrong. It was a New York swell. You’re working on the wrong lay.” Still Ida made no reply. “Who does Nick Carter think did it?” Ida continued her silence. “What have you got onto since you’ve been here?” Ida did not answer that question. “Why don’t you answer?” said the man, roughly. “I’ll make you answer mighty quick.” Still Ida did not speak. The man, losing his temper, attempted to reach her by passing around the table, but Ida edged away until their positions were reversed, and she stood where the man had, and the man was where she had stood. The door was open behind her. She made a dash for it. The man seemed prepared for that, for he violently pushed the table aside and sprang after her. Ida, drawing her revolver, whirled about, and, leveling her gun, called out: “Don’t come. I’ll shoot!” The man laughed, sneeringly, and advanced. <div class="pb" id="Page_177">177</div> Ida fired. The ball carried high, knocking off his hat. But it halted the scoundrel. Ida sprang through the door, dashed along the hall, finding the head of the stairs and rushed down them. The man followed, shouting at the top of his voice, apparently calling the name of some one. Descending the stairs Ida found an open door and rushed through it to see that she was in a small yard. Hastily glancing about she saw a door in the fence. She sprang to this and found it unlocked. In a moment she was in the street. But she was hardly through the gate than the man was upon her. Ida drew her revolver again, but this time, as she leveled it, it was knocked from her hand by a man who had come from behind a tree. She was overpowered again. In the struggle she tore the disguise from the man who had followed, and the hasty glimpse she had satisfied her that he was the man who had accosted her on the cars—the brown-bearded man. This time they tied a handkerchief over her eyes. “She’s the devil’s own,” said the voice which Ida thought was the voice of the one from whom she had just escaped. “You say she belongs to Nick Carter?” said another voice. “So she is.” “She won’t get away this time,” replied the other. The two attempted to pick her up again. <div class="pb" id="Page_178">178</div> While her eyes were being bandaged, Ida had seemed to make no resistance, but was busy in taking something from her pocket. But when the two lifted her up, she wriggled out of their grasp, sinking to the pavement, where she tried to do something with her hand. The two pounced on her again, and this time lifted her clear from her feet, and not gently, either. It did not appear that they carried her again through the gate by which she had escaped, but up the street a short distance and into another hallway. But she struggled with every step, throwing out her right arm and bringing it into contact with everything she could strike. She did this so regularly that it seemed as if she had a purpose in it, though what it was, was by no means clear. She was carried up a pair of stairs and put in a room again, and, as before, seated in a chair. “There,” said a voice that she recognized as that of the brown-bearded man, “I reckon you’ll stay here for a while.” Ida lifted her hands, which had been left free, and tore the bandage from her eyes. She was not in the same room, and it was lighted so well that she could see that she had made no mistake in supposing that one of the men was the one who had traveled from New York at midday with her, and that the 179 other was the tough who had, in accosting her, induced her to enter the dark hallway. She had not spoken a word. “She’s game,” said the tough. “I should say so,” replied the other. “But we’ll take some of the gameness out of her before we get through with her.” The two withdrew, locking and bolting the doors behind them, leaving Ida alone in the dark to think over her strange plight, and whether her telegram would reach Chick, and, if it did, if Chick would find her. <div class="pb" id="Page_180">180</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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