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Mr. John P. Dunster, lying flat upon his little bed, watched with dilated eyes the disappearance of the ladder. Then he laughed. It was a queer sound -- broken, spasmodic, devoid of any of the ordinary elements of humor -- and yet it was a laugh. Mr. Fentolin turned his head towards his prisoner and nodded thoughtfully.
"What a constitution, my friend! " he exclaimed, without any trace of disturbance in his voice. "And what a sense of humour! Strange that a trifling circumstance like this should affect it. Meekins, burn some more of the powder. The atmosphere down here may be salubrious, but I am unaccustomed to it."