Mr. Crellan acted his part well, and waiting below, Hewitt heard this dialogue: "No, uncle, I don't feel very well, but it's nothing. I think my room seems close. I can scarcely breathe." "Oh, it isn't close to-night. You'll be catching cold, my dear. Go and have a good sleep; you mustn't worry that wise little head of yours, you know. Mr. Hewitt and I have been making quite a night of it, but I'm off to bed now." "I hope they've made you both quite comfortable, uncle?" "Oh, yes; capital, capital. We've been talking over business, and, no doubt, we shall put that matter all in order soon. By the bye, I suppose since you saw Mr. Hewitt you haven't happened to remember anything more to tell him?" "No." "You still can't remember any hiding-places or panels, or that sort of thing in the wainscot or anywhere?" "No, I'm sure I don't know of any, and I don't believe for a moment that any exist." "Quite sure of that, I suppose?" "Oh yes." "All right. Now go to bed. You'll catch _such_ a cold in these draughty landings. Come, I won't move a step till I see your door shut behind you. Good-night." "Good-night, uncle." Mr. Crellan came downstairs again with a face of blank puzzlement. "I wouldn't have believed it," he assured Martin Hewitt; "positively I wouldn't have believed she'd have told such a lie, and with such confidence, too. There's something deep and horrible here, I'm afraid. What does it mean?" "We'll talk of that afterwards," Hewitt replied. "Come now and take a look at that recess." They went, quietly still, to the small staircase, and there, with a candle, closely examined the recess. It was a mere box, three feet high, a foot or a little more deep, and six or seven inches wide. The piece of oak framing, pivoted to the stair at the bottom and to a horizontal piece of framing at the top, stood edge forward, dividing the opening down the centre. There was nothing whatever in the recess. Hewitt ascertained that there was no catch, the plank simply remaining shut by virtue of fitting tightly, so that nothing but pressure on the proper part was requisite to open it. He had closed the plank and turned to speak to Mr. Crellan, when another interruption occurred. On each floor the two staircases were joined by passages, and the ground-floor passage, from the foot of the flight they were on, led to the entrance hall. Distinct amid the loud clicking of the hall clock, Hewitt now heard a sound, as of a person's foot shifting on a stone step. Mr. Crellan heard it too, and each glanced at the other. Then Hewitt, shading the candle with his hand, led the way to the hall. There they listened for several seconds--almost an hour--it seemed--and then the noise was repeated. There was no doubt of it. It was at the other side of the front door.