r my first
action, when I plucked up nerve enough for it, was an entirely
sensible one. I set the tinder-box on the floor between my heels,
felt for the table, and righted it; then, picking up the box again,
set it on the table and twisted off the lid. I found flint and steel
at once, dipped my fingers into the box to make sure of the tinder
and the brimstone matches, and so, after another pause to listen,
essayed to strike out the spark.

This, for a pair of trembling hands, proved no easy business, and at
first promised to be a hopeless one. But the worst moment arrived
when, the spark struck, I stooped to blow it upon the tinder, the
glow of which must light up my own face while it revealed to me
nothing of the surrounding darkness. Still, it had to be done; and,
keeping a tight hold on what little remained of my courage, I thrust
in the match and ignited it.

While the brimstone caught fire and bubbled I drew myself erect to
face the worst. But for what met my eyes as the flame caught hold of
the stick, even the overturned table had not prepared me.

The furniture of the room lay pell-mell, as though a cyclone had
swept through it. The very pictures hung askew. Of the drawers in
the dresser some had been pulled out bodily, others stood half open,
and all had been ransacked; while the fragments of china strewn along
the shelves or scattered across the floor could only be accounted for
by some blind ferocity of destruction--a madman, for instance, let
loose upon it, and striking at random with a stick. As the match
burned low in my fingers I looked around hastily for a candle,
scanning the dresser, the mantel-shelf, the hugger-mugger of linen,
crockery, wall-ornaments, lying in a trail along the floor. But no
candle could I discover; so I lit a second match from the first and
turned towards the sacred cupboard in the corner.

The cupboard was gone!

I held the match aloft, and stared at the angle of the wall; stared
stupidly, at first unable to believe. Yes, the cupboard was gone!
Nothing remained but the mahogany bracket which had supported it.
I gazed around, the match burning lower and lower in my hand till it
scorched my fingers. The pain of it awakened me, and, dropping the
charred end, I stumbled out into the passage, almost falling on the
way as my feet entangled themselves in Captain Coffin's best
table-cloth.

A moment later I was rapping at Mr. George Goodfellow's door.
I knew that he som