‘Chain him well,’ the old man’s voice said. ‘And keep that bag on his head, I told you!’ Rip slid back down with a muffled gasp. The problem with the peepholes in the secret passages was that they were made for grown-ups. Another voice sounded—the weasel voice. ‘As you wish, my lord. Ah, my lord—’ ‘You’ll get the rest of your money, oaf. I don’t keep that much cash here: my man of business in Land’s End will bring it up next week. I have need of you anyway, until then. Be silent, and go—’ Chains clanked. ‘Your son is waking, my lord,’ said the oily man’s voice. ‘Perhaps we should leave. I have examined him, and apart from a few scrapes and bruises, he is healthy enough. More than healthy enough to last three days.’ ‘Do not call him my son, ever again,’ the old man’s voice said, softly menacing. ‘He murdered my lady Elaine.’ Steps faded away, and the lantern-light through the peephole went out as the outer door of the room thudded shut; they could hear the key turn in the lock.
