t no servant was in the room, and then,
standing on a settee before the fire, touched something above, and a
circular hole large enough for a man to clamber through appeared in the
midst of the tracery.

"There," he said, "and you will find some cured ham and a candle, with a
few dates within, should you ever have need to step up there--which, pray
God, you may not."

"What is the secret?" asked Anthony, as the tracery swung back into
place, and his host stepped down.

"Pull the third roebuck's ears in the coat of arms, or rather push them.
It closes with a spring, and is provided with a bolt. But I do not
recommend that refuge unless it is necessary. In winter it is too hot,
for the chimney passes behind it; and in summer it is too oppressive, for
there is not too much air."

At the end of the corridor that led in the direction of the little old
rooms where Anthony had slept in his visit, Mr. Buxton stopped before the
portrait of a kindly-looking old gentleman that hung on the wall.

"Now there is an upright old man you would say; and indeed he was, for he
was my own uncle, and made a godly end of it last year. But now see what
a liar I have made of him!"

Mr. Buxton put his hand behind the frame, and the whole picture opened
like a door showing a space within where three or four could stand.
Anthony stepped inside and his friend followed him, and after showing him
some clothes hanging against the wall closed the picture after them,
leaving them in the dark.

"Now see what a sharp-eyed old fellow he is too," whispered his host.
Anthony looked where he was guided, and perceived two pinholes through
which he could see the whole length of the corridor.

"Through the centre of each eye," whispered his friend. "Is he not shrewd
and secret? And now turn this way."

Anthony turned round and saw the opposite wall slowly opening; and in a
moment more he stepped out and found himself in the lobby outside the
little room where he had made the exercises six years ago. He heard a
door close softly as he looked about him in astonishment, and on turning
round saw only an innocent-looking set of shelves with a couple of books
and a little pile of paper and packet of quills upon them.

"There," said Mr. Buxton, "who would suspect Tacitus his history and
Juvenal his satires of guarding the passage of a Christian ecclesiastic
fleeing for his life?"

Then he showed him the secret, how one shelf had to be drawn out
steadily,