The Mystery Megapack

for life. But we certainly won’t find that bird in any common ordinary cellar, when we get there!”
    “Oh, but you will, Mr. Thomas! Ours isn’t an ordinary cellar at all, is it, Frank? It hasn’t any windows, only little slits a cat would have to squeeze to get through; and it is all stone and cement, and that kitchen door is just one tremendous oak plank, with a staple that some village blacksmith must have made before the Mexican War! He never could get out without tools or dynamite; and there were neither in the cellar. But I do hope he hasn’t broken my lovely jars of pickles and peach plums and quince jelly and things. You know, Mr. Thomas, he is so destructive, that is, if he is the man you are hunting for?”
    “He’s the man all right,” Thomas said, “And if he’s still in that cellar, I’ll see that the county replaces any pickles and jellies he’s wrecked! Far as that goes, the neighbors will swamp you with homemade goodies soon as they hear he’s a prisoner.”
    Their house was already in sight; it looked peaceful in the full flood of noonday sunshine, and to add to the homey appearance, Romeo sat on the doorstep, washing his face.
    As the car stopped, and the four piled out almost simultaneously, Annie spoke again. “I don’t hear him, and when I left he was yelling like a madman, and hammering on the door!”
    Led by the sheriff, they entered the house. Not a sound greeted them save the ticking of the clock, and the friendly song of the teakettle. Peering cautiously around the door jamb, Thomas noted that the stout oak door leading down to the cellar still held. It was not even sprung. He crossed the floor; the iron staple was fast. He turned to speak to Frank, who was at his heels.
    “Well, the door held! And unless he’s dug himself out, he’s still down there.”
    He leaned his head close against the sturdy plank, and called: “It’s all up, Schmidt! Save yourself trouble by giving up quietly. You haven’t a chance!”
    There was no reply from below.
    Again, louder still, Thomas called, placing his lips to the crack by the stout hinges. “I’m opening the door, Schmidt! And you’re covered by three guns. The first false move, and we’ll drill ye like a sieve!”
    Still no answer.
    The sheriff turned his head again. There was a little pallor beneath his tan, but his voice was steady, “Take your wife out of the room, Weston! Don’t want any stray bullets to get her. And you might as well go, too. Your duty don’t call you to horn into this; mine does.”
    Half reluctantly, but dragged by his wife, Weston stepped back over the line of possible fire, and into the living room. The sheriff’s man crossed the kitchen and took his place by his side. Both held heavy service revolvers cocked in their right hands.
    “Give me your pocket torch, Jim,” Thomas said. “You throw the door wide open, and then cover it from the side.”
    The man nodded. There was a harsh scrape as the rusty iron staple gave, and suddenly the door stood wide flung. Down the dark stairs flamed the beam from the sheriff’s flashlight.
    After a moment, he spoke without turning his head.
    “Nobody in sight. Well, I’m not exactly looking forward to this, but it’s all a part of a sheriff’s job!”
    His heavy boot was planted on the topmost step. And, swinging his pocket torch in narrow arcs, illuminating every corner of the dark cellar as he advanced, his revolver held at the cock, he slowly; descended to the cement vault in which presumably, a maniac lurked ready to sell his life for the best price he could exact.
    There came to those who waited above, their breaths held almost to suffocation, the pulses singing in their arteries, an astonished cry from Joe Thomas. “By thunder! Jim, come down here!”
    Not only the deputy, but Frank Weston and his wife piled forward, something in the sheriff’s voice telling them that there was nothing more to fear.
    Nor was there. In the center of the little, snug, dry cellar, a great shelf of preserves and jellies swung gently to and fro. At one side of the cellar, something else swayed slightly, turning ever so little from side to side. Something suspended from the iron hook to which, a half hour ago, a smoked ham had been made fast.
    It was their genial guest of the past four days, who, finding himself a helpless prisoner, had removed his leather belt, and hanged himself!

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DIAMOND NECKLACE, by G. F. Forrest
    As I pushed open the door, I