"Where does this lead?" said the superintendent, as he entered the passage farther back. "Another cellar, perhaps." They followed to the end, one of the men striking a match or two, for the extreme part was dark. "Humph! locked. Well, that can't be a way out, for there is no mat." Sniff, sniff! "What's that--powder? and what's that empty Gladstone doing there?" Just then the constable who had given the alarm suddenly stepped forward and stooped down. "What is it, Dick? One of the straws out of the mare's nest?" said the superintendent. For answer, the man drew at something quite low down by the floor, and it came away in his hand, to prove, on being held to the light of a wax match, a mere scrap of a handsomely-braided silk dress. "Ah!" cried the superintendent, showing the first signs of excitement, "smell of powder--that bit of silk!" He thumped with his knuckles on the panel of the door, and exclaimed-- "There's an iron inside; dress caught as they passed through, and as the door was shut the edge cut that off like a pair of shears. There's a way out here, my lads, and we've got hold of the clue." It seemed easier to point out the clue than to follow it, for the door was strong, and it was not until suitable implements had been fetched, to further excite the crowd, and a sturdy attack made at the end of the passage, that the outer door gave way, the bolts of the strongly-made lock being broken right off. "By George! you've got hold of a case this time, my lad," cried the superintendent; "but it's an attempt at a big burglary. This isn't a way out; it's the principal plate-closet, and they've been trying to get it open, and failed. Hammer leather-covered, wedges, pistols, dark lantern smashed, tin of powder, and marks on the front of the safe door where the wedges have been. Powder smells quite strong here. They must have tried to blast the door open. Out, all of you; they're hiding somewhere. They can't have got away." The men turned back, all but the one who had given the alarm, and he had struck a fresh match, for the bulb in the ceiling gave forth no light, and was stooping down to sweep away some of the sawdust on the floor. "Come along, Dick," cried the superintendent. "What have you got there?" "Look, sir," said the man, holding out a handful of the sawdust he had scraped up. "There's a bottle yonder that's had port wine in it, but this looks to me like blood." CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND. "Blood of the grape!" cried the superintendent, contemptuously. "Where were you brought up? Never in a gentleman's wine cellar before? You should go down to the docks and see the floors there. By Jingo! but it is blood!" More of the sawdust was scraped aside, and the truth was plain enough; a broad patch had lain there, and the granulated wood had been thrown over to soak it up.