arred as well, for it was now thudding and
cracking with blows that were being showered upon it from the other side.
The maids, it seemed to him, in a panic had locked the door; but that
panic might be his salvation. He dashed down the stairs; the maids
screamed louder than ever when they saw this man, whom they did not
recognise, with blackened face and hands come in noiseless leaps down
towards them; but Anthony put his finger on his lips as he flew past
them; then he dashed open the little door that shut off the
cellar-flight, closed it behind him, and was immediately in the dark.

Then he groped his way down, feeling the rough brick wall as he went,
till he reached the floor of the cellar. The air was cool and damp here,
and it refreshed him, for he was pouring with sweat. The noise, too, and
confusion which, during his flight, had been reverberating through the
house with a formidable din, now only reached him as a far-away murmur.

As he counted the four steps up, and then lifted the overhanging edge,
there came upon him irresistibly the contrast between the serene party
here last night, with their tapers and their delicate dresses and Mary's
cool clear-clipped voice--and his own soot-stained person, his desperate
energy and his quick panting and heart-beating. Then the steps dropped
and he slid in; lifted them again as he lay on his back, and heard the
spring catch as they closed. Then he was in silence, too, and comparative
safety. But he dared not rest yet, and edged himself along as he had seen
Mr. Buxton do last night. Which brick was it? "The fourth of the fourth,"
he murmured, and counted, and pressed it. Again the door pushed back, and
with a little struggle he was first on his knees, and then on his feet.
Then he swung the door to again behind him.

Then for the first time he rested; he leaned against the brick-lined side
of the tunnel and passed his blackened hands over his face. Five minutes
ago--yes--certainly not five minutes ago he was lounging in the west
parlour, at the other end of the house, while Mary played the prelude to
an Italian love-song.--What was she doing now? God bless her for her
quick courage!--And Isabel and Buxton--where were they all? How deadly
sick and tired he felt!--Again he passed his hands over his face in the
pitch darkness.--Well, he must push on.

He turned and began to grope patiently through the blackness--step by
step--feeling the roughness of the bricks beneath with