A soiled linen collar, which had lost all its starch and was half unbuttoned, partially encircled the captive's neck; his brown boots were unlaced; a cap, a handkerchief, a portion of a watch-chain, and a few gold coins lay on the floor.
Racksole flashed the lantern into the corners of the cellar, but he could discover no other furniture except the chair on which the Hereditary Prince of Posen sat and a small deal table on which were a plate and a cup.
'Eugen,' cried Prince Aribert once more, but this time his forlorn nephew made no response whatever, and then Aribert added in a low voice to Racksole: 'Perhaps he cannot see us clearly.' 'But he must surely recognize your voice,' said Racksole, in a hard, gloomy tone.

There was a pause, and the two men above ground looked at each other hesitatingly.

Each knew that they must enter that cellar and get Prince Eugen out of it, and each was somehow afraid to take the next step.
'Thank God he is not dead!' said Aribert.
'He may be worse than dead!' Racksole replied.
'Worse than--What do you mean ?' 'I mean--he may be mad.' 'Come,' Aribert almost shouted, with a sudden access of energy--a wild impulse for action.

And, snatching the lantern from Racksole, he rushed into the dark room where they had heard the conversation of Miss Spencer and the lady in the red hat.

For a moment Racksole did not stir from the threshold of the window.